FORTUNE'S WHEEL
by Dubricus
Summary: Derek Rayne is lured into a Bahamian vacation. Prolog thru Pt 22 in 4 chapters.
1. FORTUNE'S WHEEL

*Title: Fortune's Wheel: Part 4 of the "Time Chronicles" 

*Author/pseudonym: Susan Lay & Dubricus 

*Email address: sldl22638@blueyonder.co.uk; dubricus@hotmail.com 

*Website: - **Merlynn's Maze**

*Rating: R; language; adult situations [aka sex] 

*Angst Rating: low 

*Focus: Derek with some Nick 

*Status: Complete in 22 parts; first posted Sept. 2000. 

*Episode spoilers: "The Beast Within" & "Trapped" 

*Summary: Following his "Interlude" in the desert Southwest, Derek Emrys Rayne is lured into a Bahamian vacation with an "old friend". Along with fun and sun, he learns to cope with a new "talent" and deals with some nefarious doings at a local casino. 

*Special warnings: This story is part of the life of **Dr. Derek Emrys Rayne** & is Part 4 of "the Time Chronicles". Earlier stories were **_A Killing Time, Death Watch,_** & **_Interlude._**

We never intended for our "saga" to become as complex as it has. It just sort of grew. I intend to post here, at the FanFiction.net, what I can. However, several of our stories grew to be so large that it is not practical. Some also have photos that accompany the text. 

Therefore, I would strongly urge a visit to **Merlynn's Maze,** where you will also find a "Who's Who" & a "What's What" section, entitled **_Faith Hath Need of the Whole Truth_**, along with photos taken by the authors of the real Angel Island, San Francisco environs, & Hatley Castle. 

*Disclaimer: This story is an original work of amateur fiction, & is written purely for the private entertainment of P:TL fans. This story is no way affiliated with the Trilogy Entertainment Group, MGM Worldwide Television or the Sci-Fi Channel. No monetary gain is intended. 

* * *

******FORTUNE'S WHEEL**: **_Part 4 of the "Time Chronicles"_**

by Dubricus & Susan Lay (Sept. 2000) 

**_Part 1 - __Prologue_**

_**Journal of Derek Rayne**_ ****

21 April 2000 - Friday evening   
Pasadena, California 

On the second day of our recuperation following Nick's near-escape at Kwahu Canyon, I received a very unexpected call - from Maggie Hamilton. She had telephoned the House to ask if I could fly down and Alex told her we were at Luke Grayfox's. She said she has a case coming into her courtroom and needs a bit of background information - just for her own edification to allow her to make more enlightened rulings. For some reason she thought I would be the perfect source. She didn't elaborate at the time, and so far has not deigned to mention it further. All she says is "Later, Sweet Pea... you just rest up and let me get through these files... then we'll get down to talkin' turkey." 

Ordinarily, I should not have been so passively patient, but Alex warned us that Cross is being a pest and I'm not sufficiently ready to go home in any case - too many issues I've not yet sorted out... what are my own memories and feelings vs. echoes from that "other-self". Then there is Alex... and I'm still tired... sometimes beyond expression. I'll think I'm OK, then all my energy is suddenly gone... simply vanished. It's very hard to bear. When is it ever going to get better? Soon, I hope. I have the sense that some profound event is at hand, or some momentous game is afoot. My "Sight" has shown me nothing, and yet.... 

Besides, I'm afraid I'd lose my temper with that Scottish "baardelul" and things might go flying, literally. He'd run straight to the Ruling Council with that bit of news. I don't want the Legacy to know of this new appearance of my PK - at least, not yet. I need to master it. It's worrisome that it's made a reappearance - more than worrisome. It comes when it will be needed, and when it is needed seems to be in true catastrophe. What lies ahead for me, my House, my world? I truly dread to think. I'm not sure how much more I can endure, but never mind - what will be, will be - and that too shall pass. It is the way of the Universe. 

We left Luke's yesterday morning - came down through Shiprock to Kayenta and Tuba City to pick up I-40 at Flagstaff, then stayed at Kingman and got in early this afternoon. I'd forgotten how bad the air smells when you come down from the Cajon Pass toward San Bernardino - it's that slight ocean dampness and haze mixed with smog that's been pushed back against the mountains. When you hit that after being accustomed to the dry, clear air of the high desert, you hit a stench. Fortunately, you don't get it when you come into LA from the north. The heavy traffic was headed out toward Vegas so we made good time coming in. 

Nick's presence is wearing on me again. I feel as guilty as hell about the way I feel. I wouldn't have survived my expedition to the cliff dwelling without him and he might have died because of me. I was a fool to think I was up to making that trip alone. And yet.... he's always here - watching - ever helpful. I am not made of spun glass nor am I a hundred years old. Maybe I'm just tired from the drive. Mustangs don't allow much elbow room, nor do fully occupied Arizona motels. 

Maggie looks good. Like Shakespeare's Cleopatra, "Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety." A bit more grey in that auburn mop than I recall, but then I've much more grey too. It seems to have been a fortnight of reunions. First Luke - God, his kids have grown in number and size - now Maggie. For an oddball, I've been gifted with good friends. I wonder why - I'm certainly not the most likeable or outgoing person. She hasn't changed, but I fear I have. We're now awkward with each other - entirely my fault. My "Sight" is there, and whole, but some part of my soul is wanting to pull away from others. It's as if I must reconnect with everyone. I've done so with Nick and Luke, but it's been difficult. I want to hide away. I'm feeling everything too much. It's like nails on a blackboard to me. 

I keep thinking, "This is Maggie, for God's sake." How long have we known each other? We've been friends, lovers - no holds, no strings. She's one of the few people, besides Mother and William, who would tell me when to cut the crap, but she could prick my ego and have me laughing about it. Where did that go? Am I so changed? I'm just feeling sorry for myself. I must try harder to regain what was lost. 

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$ 

**Part 2**

**_Maggie's Den - Sunday_**

Judge Margaret Hamilton looked over her reading glasses to watch her heavily pregnant St. Bernard, Marigold, diligently paw the carpeting behind the sofa. Every now and again the dog would stop to nudge some imaginary blanket or clump of dirt with her nose. Smiling in amusement, Maggie knew she would have to sacrifice some pillows and towels to the under construction "birthing nest". Marigold had a perfectly fine dog bed, one in every room, in fact, but as soon-to-be mothers are wont to do, she had decided to find somewhere more "suitable"... and this was it. 

The judge turned her attention back to her work, and a few minutes later, made her final note on the legal brief she had been dissecting, pulled off her glasses, and closed the file. It was a difficult case... a brutal gang murder, but she feared that the defendant, though an adult, had an IQ far below his age. It was the only one that she was currently adjudicating that could have presented a problem, but delaying the trial would benefit all parties, and fortunately all agreed. The other cases could be easily delayed or shifted to other judges. She smiled to herself... the benefit of being presiding judge. 

Gazing out the sliding glass doors at the sparkling windows on the opposite mountainside, Maggie pushed herself back from her desk, then looked around at the chaos that had claimed her den, her sanctuary. It was always a mess, with law books and case files piled on every available surface, but it was "her" mess, and she knew where every item lay hidden. Her visitors had been here less than two days and already they had made an impact. Not that she would have had it any other way. To see Derek on the road to recovery was worth any price. 

They were still dancing round each other at the moment... almost like doing an out-of-sync Texas Two-step, she thought... neither sure what to say, nor how to act. She missed that comfortable, "down home" feeling with him, and was determined to get it back. 

His new "talent" was a little disconcerting. As she bent to retrieve the latest victim, a five-pound law book, she remembered sitting in the kitchen over breakfast, when all the pots and pans had begun to vibrate and the microwave had threatened to walk off the counter. 

"Earthquake!" she had cried, ready to dive under the table if the tremor grew stronger. Nick had grinned, while Derek had looked thoroughly abashed. 

"It's not a quake," the younger man explained, "just Derek's new parlor game." 

This game was proving difficult for her friend. He was struggling hard to gain control of the psychokinesis, but the more he tried, the more slippery it became. 

Maggie glanced over at her younger houseguest. Nick Boyle was sitting in her most comfortable, leather chair, looking anything but comfortable. He shuffled restlessly and visibly winced with his face screwed tight, while her other guest, Derek Rayne, sat at the piano replaying a set of scales... B flat, yet again. 

For a moment Marigold gave up digging her pit to China and ambled over to sit beside the pianist. She turned her brown, soulful eyes on him and began to howl in joyful accompaniment. 

For Nick, it was the last straw. He rose, slammed his newspaper down on the chair and tromped off toward the front door. 

Maggie left the duet to their practice. She found Nick standing on the porch, staring dejectedly toward the palm lined street and the emerald lawn with its neat flowerbeds basking in the late morning sun. 

She was old enough to understand men. Rather than saying anything, she picked up the jug she kept beside the steps and began watering her hanging plants... waiting for him to say something. 

Glancing towards her, he finally asked, "How can you stand that? He's played that same damned scale for two hours now. I'm not sure what's worse... the constant repetition or the 'Hound of the Baskervilles' as a backup singer." He rubbed his face with his hands, then shook his head to clear his aching ears. 

"Sorry," Maggie replied, extracting ear plugs. "What'd you say, Sugar?" 

Realising Maggie's secret, the young man grinned ruefully. "I wondered how you could stand the noise." 

Maggie's Texas drawl was at its most sweet, and its most biting. "Nick, sweetie... the last time I saw that man he was damned near a shriveled up corpse lyin' in his shroud. I don't give a rat's ass if nothin' but noise comes outta that thing, or if I have to listen to scales till the cows come home." 

Blushing in shame at his own crass thoughtlessness, Nick hung his head for a moment. 

"'Sides," she continued, "that danged thing hasn't seen that much use since it sat in Granpap's saloon. But, I do understand what you mean." She sidled up to him, patted his hand, then turned it over to drop another pair of earplugs into his open palm. "And here's a little cure-all for what ails you!" With a chuckle, they exchanged knowing grins. 

"What we really need to do, Mr. Boyle, is get him away... really away... a complete break... lots of sun... sand...." Her eyebrows rose suggestively, to indicate what else she had in mind. "Between us, we can surely think of something." 

Nick nodded in agreement. "His recovery has been amazing... but a vacation... no worries... no Legacy... no Luna Foundation... no piano.... It might be just what the doctor ordered." 

Folding her arms, Maggie casually leaned against the porch's railing and all trace of Texas dropped away. "We've got the obsessive, perfectionist element of his personality to the fore at the moment. What he needs is some honest to goodness fun. I want to see him, head back, roaring with laughter. Then I'll know we've got all our boy back." She looked up to see a quizzical expression flit through Nick's hazel eyes. Chuckling, she added, "I know... it's a recessive gene with him, but take my word, Sugar... it's there." 

The judge paused for a moment then smiled wickedly. "Darlin', I didn't clear my court docket for nothin'. I got a lot of judges real peeved at me. But hell, being presiding judge oughta count for something. 

"You need to get in that pretty, little car of yours and go do some shopping... buy a few clothes... think tropical paradise. I'll handle the rest... like...." She didn't finish her sentence. The conversation was interrupted by the sound of shattering glass. The scales stopped... so did the howling. 

"There goes another of Grandpappy's crystal, whisky glasses," Maggie murmured. "I'm startin' to recognise that tune. I think I'd better put the decanter away. I'd hate to lose all that gold lettering from the 'Yellow Rose Saloon and Pleasure Palace'." 

An embarrassed precept opened the door to join his friends. The remains of a whisky tumbler lay in his large hands. "I'm so sorry, Maggie. I'll replace everything." 

"Darlin', now don't you worry... not about that ol' thing." She teased her friend as she relieved him of the broken remnants. "It's not like it was new!" 

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**Part 3**

**_Afternoon..._**

Derek woke, feeling comfortable and safe. He inhaled deeply... orange blossoms. Where was he? Stretching his long legs, he luxuriated in the feel and the smell of clean, crisp, cotton sheets. He decided to drag his eyes open. Maggie's house... her guestroom. He smiled at the decor... very modern... clean... very Maggie. 

He turned his head to gaze at the window. The sky was a deep turquoise and the bougainvillea shone bright magenta in the golden-orange light of late afternoon. Derek glanced at the bedside clock... 3:23 p.m. He had napped for over two hours. He was half disappointed that Maggie hadn't joined him in bed... half relieved. He hadn't been intimate with her, he snorted and grimaced... with anyone... for a long time... in memory not since the night Megan Torrance, the Megan of the "other" world, the sassy "print journalist," had died because of Derek Rayne. In his own, real, physical life... when?... He couldn't recall. With a deep sigh, he stretched and yawned. Glancing beneath the sheets, he surveyed his naked body and muttered, "I hope you gentlemen can still rise to the occasion should duty call." 

The precept rolled from his bed, quickly showered, and dressed, then wandered into the kitchen in search of his friends. Maggie was sitting at the table pouring over a gaudy magazine that she hastily shoved to one side as he entered. He sat opposite, toying with his precept's ring, searching for conversation. This was Maggie, one of his oldest, dearest friends... his sometime lover... and he didn't know what to say. 

"Where's Nick?" he finally asked, glancing around for his watchdog. His "Sight" sensed his friend's complete absence... and oddly, missed it, but was glad of it at the same time. 

"He took a drive... said he noticed an odd vibration and wanted to give that little, red cherry a run up and down a few hills," Maggie informed him with a bald-faced lie. "I'll make you a sandwich. I thought we'd have a barbecue this evening... once Nick gets back.... I've got all the fixin's and a nice Sunday evening needs the smell of mesquite and good beef on the grill.... Be just like back home." 

Nodding, Derek watched as she bustled about the kitchen. He secretly smiled at the slim, almost boyish figure and the fuzzy, auburn hair that could be a rat's nest or a sleek, French twist. She and Nick seemed to be getting on well, he thought. Not too well... he fervently hoped, remembering the furtive glances and whispered conversations that stopped when he entered the room. 

"No!" he admonished himself. His friends wouldn't betray him. Maggie wouldn't rob the cradle. Then he wondered at his own arrogance, how would it be a betrayal? Maggie wasn't his. She was a free soul... mature, beautiful, intelligent, funny... any man would find her attractive. Nick was younger, but a mature man. He'd grown up and grown into his own... especially during the past year. 

"You like Nick." It was a statement, rather than a question. 

"Sure do, Sugar. Such a fine lookin' man and he's growed up real nice," she called over her shoulder, from the depths of the refrigerator. "That's your influence, I think. Have you taught him everything you know?" she asked lightly. "All those benefits of a European education?" She placed a very full plate down in front of the precept and poured them both steaming mugs of coffee. 

"Not quite," Derek replied drily. "I like to think there are some areas where experience and technique still count." 

"Y'all might be right... but all that thrustin', youthful energy and vigor... in the hands of a skilled teacher. My... my... that's a winnin' combination." 

Sputtering into his coffee, Derek cocked an eyebrow. "In the hands of a skilled teacher," he echoed with a smile. 

Maggie met his gaze without a blink, saw the twinkle of amusement, and smiled back. Her friend... the Derek Rayne only she knew... was still there. He just needed a little coaxing, and out he'd come... just like a shy puppy. 

"Now... 'bout you and me takin' a little sunshine break. There must be something I can do to make you change your mind. I've got a friend who introduced me to the cutest, little place in the islands... right on the beach... it's gorgeous... and private... just the birds and the bees... and this is just the right time of year... no hurricanes." 

Derek wondered how many times Maggie and her "friend" had shared this cute, little place. "I'm sorry, Maggie.... When I have more time, I promise we'll get away... soon... but right now, my plate's just too full... and I don't mean of sandwiches. I've got so much to get caught up on," he explained. "Besides, Ingrid is using the jet for church business... I promised it to her... actually to the archbishop... I couldn't break my word." 

"OK, Darlin', but you remember... you owe me. We never did make it to Ayers Rock." Maggie sighed heavily in acquiescence. "Maybe I could get the LAPD to arrest you and get you remanded into my custody. You know all about that trick. 

Her Texas drawl suddenly vanished. "Now.... if you'll excuse me, I have some calls to make." She rose, stood over him, and gently kissed him the top of his head. As she walked toward the door, she turned back. "Marigold could do with a little exercise. Would you take her for a short walk? She'll know when she's had enough... just let her stop and smell for a while... that's the highlight of her day. Then she'll be ready to come back." 

Derek nodded... relieved that the subject of a vacation had been dropped. This convalescent state of his had its compensations, he happily noted... far fewer arguments. 

"Of course, your honor, I'll take her now," he said as he gathered the sandwiches in a paper towel. "We can share these on the way." 

"Sugar... they go in your mouth... not hers," Maggie reminded him forcefully. 

+ 

_**the Den...**_

Weighing the phone in her hand, Maggie hesitated slightly about making her call. Alex Moreau was strongly attracted to Derek... that was something her woman's intuition told her. It also told her that neither of them had done anything about it.... Yet. 

She smiled to herself... Derek's sense of honor and desire for order in his House would hold him back... his fear of loss... and the plain, old male fear of commitment. She hadn't known a man yet that didn't have that phobia buried deep down. But what about Alex? "What keeps that filly in the startin' gate?" she mused to herself. 

Even though they'd plotted to get Derek to Pasadena for a few more days of peace and quiet, and they had joked about an escape to a tropical paradise... that's what it had been... joking. What would Alex think when she got a call asking her to connive in a plot to get Derek away to a very real Carribean island... to have some fun... and... both women would know what was included in that "fun". 

At last, she sighed. "It ain't like she don't know what Derek and I do every now and again... but... be jesus... I ain't ever had to ask for help before." She took a deep steadying breath and pressed the autodial button. 

"Alex Moreau," a hollow voice answered. 

"Alex, Hi... it's Margaret Hamilton... Maggie." 

"Is everything OK? Derek and Nick... they're OK?" 

"Yes, they're both fine, really," she hastily reassured the other woman. "Derek is driving Nick... and me... nuts at the moment. He's trying so hard to get better... you know... to get back to what he was." She smiled and so did her voice. "Sweet thing that he is, but I declare if he mangles his way through that song from _**the Sting**_ one more time, either I'll throttle him or Scott Joplin will come back from the grave to do it!" She paused. Now for the tricky bit, she thought as she twisted her phone's cord round her finger. 

Alex noticed the hesitation. "What is it? Can I help in some way?" 

"You sure can, honey," Maggie quickly replied. "I need a lil', bitty, ol' favor. His mind's on work, and goin' home... but, I intend to kidnap our boy and hustle his sweet, little fanny off to that paradise we were talking about. I'll kick start his 'love of life' back into gear. 'Sides... I got to get him out of here or I won't have a single piece of crystal or bone china left. I hold my breath every time the plate glass doors start to rattle. He's worse than a six pointer on the Richter scale." 

"Yesss...." Alex wasn't altogether sure she liked the sound of this. "Love of life" or "love life"? she wondered. She knew Maggie and Derek had been on-again-off-again lovers, but with the horrors of past year... the certain knowledge that she had lost her teacher, her mentor, her friend, her... what else was he? What else could he be if she tried, if she made him try? What was it that she really felt about Derek Rayne? She was in the throes of a dilemma and Maggie, back on the scene, would be a complication she didn't need. 

"Don't you worry, honey," Maggie hastily added as the lull grew. "I love that man... but I'm not 'in love' with him, nor he with me... never been. We have fun... and I pluck that rooster's tail feathers when he gets too cocky. We've got no strings... no commitments.... just a forty-five-year-old judge and a forty-six-year-old 'whatever he is'. We're both too set in our ways for anything else. 'Sides... Marigold might give up her side of the bed every so often, but I don't think she'd care to make a habit out of it. I promise to send him home all spic n'span... all his plumbin' and natural instincts in real good workin' order!" 

Maggie could hear the wheels and cogs in Alex's brain considering her statement. "What do you want me to do?" the younger woman finally asked. 

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**Part 4**

**_Sunday evening..._**

A warm, easterly breeze wafted the delicious aroma of beef grilling over mesquite chips around the flagstone patio. The house lights twinkled on the opposite side of the Arroyo Seco, while off in the distance, a stream of headlights crossed the freeway bridge that spanned the canyon south of the Rose Bowl. Somewhere in the dusk a mockingbird sang for a mate, and higher up the mountainside a dog, or a coyote, howled in what seemed like loneliness. 

Sprawled in the grass, Marigold raised her immense head at the mournful sound and gave a quiet whimper, but soon turned her nose back to the upcoming meal. Her tail slowly beat the ground in anticipation. Her mistress smiled as she watched her two men, each insisting that they should carry out the duties of head chef. "What is it with barbecues?" Maggie asked. "Y'all suddenly experts? I'll bet I'm the only one here that's ever slung grub at a real Texas cook out." 

Determined to relax, Derek was beaming affably. He was going to allow nothing to tread on his mood. "Many times, at home, I helped with the barbecues, and I hardly ever burned the meat," he stated with aplomb. 

"...and did you have a lot of barbecues in Holland?" Nick asked as he flipped a steak. "It's a great American tradition... not Dutch... American! You guys outta stick to da cheese!" 

"Cheese?" Derek spluttered in mock indignation. "Dat's the only Dutch cuisine you know! Besides the Raynes have a long heritage of Southern cooking." 

"Who did the cooking?" The younger man countered. "The hired help?" 

Maggie wandered over to link arms with Derek. "Come on, Darlin', let the boy have his fun... you and me can take a stroll... enjoy this glorious, Southern California evenin'. Betcha don't get weather like this up north." 

Derek treated her to a warm grin, and she wondered what had brought about this happy transformation. "Say... just how many beers you had, Sugar?" 

"It's not the beers.... Come with me." He dragged her towards the den. "Open the patio doors," he instructed, "so Nick can hear." 

Maggie and Nick exchanged panicked glances. Caught without their earplugs, they both gritted their teeth, even as they presented cheesy grins to their friend. 

Derek sat at the upright, flexed his long fingers, looked up to make sure they were watching, then treated them to a Liberace smile, and began to play. First, **_The Entertainer_**, the Joplin ragtime tune that had given him such fits, then another composition. Both were flawless performances. 

"Sooo, practice makes perfect?" he asked Maggie as his eyebrows rose appealingly in hopes of receiving overwhelming praise. 

"Wonderful, Dr. Rayne, really... wonderful." agreed Maggie, beaming as broadly as the pianist. 

"Shall I play you another?" he eagerly asked as he decided to keep them both in agony for a little longer. Did they really think he had not seen the yellow plastic in their ears? 

"No, you don't want to wear yourself out. Besides the steaks are ready," Nick hastily interjected. "But that was great... just like old times. What was that last one? I sorta remember Mom humming that." 

"_**Dein Ist Mein Ganzes Herz**_... 'You Are My Heart's Delight'." Derek informed him as he rejoined his audience on the patio. "It's always been a favorite of mine." 

Maggie glanced over at Nick, who was forking large steaks onto plates. "Smells scrumptious. Slice me off a hunk of that plump one for my hungry girl...," she said, pointing to one particularly juicy specimen. "...and gimme one of those tortillas.... Can't sit here and eat all this good stuff and leave her just watchin' and sniffin'.... Her favorite thing in the whole world is a good taco al carbon with fresh salsa. The vet says no, but a bite or two won't hurt. You want another beer, honey?" she asked the chef. 

"Sure, I'll take another," Nick replied as he cut a large piece of meat from the bone, sliced it into strips, and plopped it onto the flour tortilla. "We can't let Derek get too far ahead." He was delighted to see his precept so happy. It was almost worth the hours of torture they had endured listening to the interminable scales. Maybe... just maybe... the road ahead was leveling out. 

+ 

**_Later..._**

"Phew!" Nick exhaled as he lay back in the grass. "That was some dinner!" Stretching, he felt almost uncomfortably full. He rolled over and reached into the ice chest to pull out a wet, chilled can of Coke, which he downed and followed with an amazing burp. "'Scuse me." 

"That's all right, hon... more room out than in," said Maggie. 

None of them felt the urge to move from their comfortable spot. Instead they lounged companionably on the grass. No longer masked by the aroma of seared meat and the sharp, sweet smell of mesquite, the fragrance of spring honeysuckle and pungent eucalyptus rose from the canyon below. 

"More wine?" she asked, at last breaking the friendly silence. "There's just a smidgen left in the bottle." 

Derek extended his glass. "That was... goot," he agreed. "Even if Nick did undercook the meat." 

"Sugar, sometimes a nice, pink, tender hunk of beef is the best thing in the world," said Maggie as she poured the dark burgundy. "I know I never can resist bitin' into a nice juicy weenie... you never want a good ol' dog burnt and shriveled like an old piece of shoe leather." 

Even in the dim light that shone from the patio, the judge was certain that both men had blushed. Smiling, she leaned against Derek and enjoyed the warmth of his body. He slipped his arm around her shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze. 

"Y'all hear about the little, old lady from Pasadena?" She felt the precept shake his head no and continued. "Seems like this little, old lady had been to the grocery store. She came out and found these four big, tattooed, 'low-rider' types in her car. She dropped her sacks and pulled a pistol out of her pocket, then started screaming at them that she knew how to use it, and would.... 'So get out of the car, now!' she hollered. 

"These four big bruisers hauled ass and ran like hell. So the lady picked up her groceries, loaded them in the car, and climbed in. Then she discovered a little, bitty problem: her key wouldn't fit the ignition. She got out, looked up and down the row of parked cars, and saw an identical car four or five spaces further down. 

"She reloaded her bags into her car and drove to the police station. The desk sergeant that she told the story to nearly busted a gut laughing, then pointed to the other end of the counter where four brawny, Latino, construction workers were reporting a car jacking.... 'Man,' she heard one say, 'she was one mean, _**arbuela loca**_'... crazy, old, white woman packin' a piece. We ran like hell.' 

"No charges were filed and she gave them a lift back to their car." Maggie laughed a deep, hearty laugh. "True story... swear to God. Here in Pasadena. It's one of those 'only in California' stories. One day I'm going to write a book." Poking Derek in the ribs with her elbow, she said, "Your turn, Darlin'." 

Nick chortled, "Derek... tell a joke? I bet he don't know one." 

"I do," the older man protested. "I know lots of jokes. I just can't think of any at the moment." 

"Yeah!" Nick mocked good-naturedly. They all knew Derek had a sense of humour, but it was a private thing that rarely made an appearance. 

"Wait.... I remember one." Derek closed his eyes and concentrated, hard. 

"Boy! This should be good, if it takes that much effort," Nick whispered in a noisy aside to Maggie. 

With a pseudo-glower, the precept ignored him. "What did one skeleton say to the other?" He looked around expectantly. 

"OK... what did it say?" Nick asked, playing along. 

"If we had any guts, we'd get out of here!" Derek ended with a flourish. 

"Darlin', that was awful," Maggie giggled, "really awful. Maybe it was better in Dutch." 

"I have another." The older man was on a roll. "Why is a graveyard such a noisy place?" He looked at them with a happy grin on his face. "Because of all the coffin." 

He eagerly tried again. "Where does Dracula keep his savings?" The precept turned expectantly to Maggie, who could only shake her head as tears trickled down her face. These were the worst jokes she had heard since grade school... no... since kindergarten. 

"In a blood bank," the precept happily pronounced. "What ghosts haunt hospitals?... Surgical spirits!" 

"Mercy," Nick groaned. "Please, say you don't know any more." 

"But I do... I do know more," Derek laughed. "But they go downhill from there." 

"Derek... Honey... all your jokes... they all seem to revolve around ghosts and goblins and long-legged beasties." 

"But, of course... it is my work... so I find it funny!" he said in plain, sincere innocence, then leaned over and gently kissed Maggie's forehead. 

"Don't give up your day job, sweetie," she whispered. "You'd starve as a stand-up comic." 

Derek chuckled at some vague half-memory of a "stand-up comedian". He then looked into his friend's blue eyes and his mind wandered... suddenly the air was filled with explosive sounds of popping and fizzing. Nick jumped to his feet as he was showered with beer and sticky cola. Every can in the ice chest had blown its pop-top and liquid was spraying like an out of control sprinkler. 

As Marigold tucked her tail and scurried to safety under a table, the younger man surveyed his soaked clothes and watched the bubbling fountain shoot skyward. 

"Derek, Darlin! I wonder what's on your lil' ol' pea pickin' brain!" Maggie asked in wicked delight. She sensed, rather than saw, the precept blush. 

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$ 

**Part 5**

**_the next morning..._**

"I don't see why you want me to come?" Derek groaned miserably. It was a beautiful morning and his head ached from last night's party. He had been looking forward to a leisurely walk with Marigold, who let out a small whimper and returned to her "nest" in disappointment. 

"Come on, Sugar," Maggie wheedled. Was she hearing the whine of a petulant, little Derek buried somewhere deep inside this grown up version? "Nick's gonna do the drivin'," she continued. "All I want you to do is keep me company. I have to pick my law clerk up. Hallie's been to Atlanta to visit the folks. I promised. Then the four of us can grab lunch. I know of a great little place down that way... and I think Nick and Hallie might just hit it off." 

The older man sighed loudly. "We're not all squeezing into Nick's car, I hope," he muttered, not at all happy with the turn of events. But Maggie was his hostess... good manners prevented him from doing anything other than accompanying her. 

"No, we're taking my car," she confirmed, "Nick's getting it out of the garage now. I want his opinion on a little noise I've been hearing down around the right, front wheel." They both heard the honking of the car's horn. "Impatient, ain't he! You be a good girl, Marigold," said Maggie as she bent to give the big head an affectionate rub. "We don't want any puppies poppin' out without Mommy here, do we?" 

* * * 

Nick admired the big Lincoln's handling as he maneuvered the car along the narrow Arroyo Seco Parkway, Los Angeles' first freeway. Sycamores and small bungalows flanked either side and climbed the mountainsides. It was like driving an armchair and had "judge" written all over it, but the challenge presented by his "pretty, little car" was missing. 

Feeling a bit like a chauffeur, he glanced in the rearview mirror. Maggie was keeping Derek entertained with stories of her courtroom experiences until they at last climbed upward and the glistening spires of downtown LA suddenly loomed ahead. 

"Nick, Sweetie... this is a tricky spot... edge right or you'll be goin' down at Hill Street straight into downtown," Maggie instructed, then shifted gears to point out the new landmarks in an ever-changing city... anything to keep the precept's mind occupied so that he wouldn't put two and two together and come up with a massive Four! 

"You haven't been down here since they opened Staples Center, have you?... big ol' thing. Did I tell you the latest LAPD scandal?..." she rattled on. "Nick, honey.... Get off at Manchester or Century... don't take the freeway... I need to make a stop. I promised Hallie I'd pick a few things up for her." 

Nick allowed the Texas drawl to fade to a perpetual murmur as he concentrated on the slow, southbound traffic. He wondered if Derek was hearing any of it any longer or had he simply put his mind in neutral and told his head to nod occasionally and his mouth to emit a quiet, "Hummm... ummm." 

At last the former SEAL exited the clogged Harbor Freeway and headed west on the broad surface streets of South Central Los Angeles. In the backseat he heard Maggie yammering on, "Now right through here's where they had the riots," she said, "but you know that. You were down here right after that to fetch Nick when he had that spot of trouble with the law." 

Nick smiled at the memory. He'd been "fetched" all right... kidnaped was more the word... right into the Legacy with the good judge's help... best thing that had ever happened to him. 

* * * 

Twenty minutes later, as they neared the airport, Maggie glanced out her window, and spotted what she wanted. "Honey, can you stop at that drug store?" 

"OK, boss," Nick muttered. Ignoring the sharp glance, he grimaced at the thought of the unfortunate members of the criminal fraternity that found themselves before this judge. He'd been there and done that until she had recused herself from his case." 

Nick pulled into a tight space. Derek got out and hurried around to open the other door for Maggie. She grinned to herself... European courtesy, you couldn't beat it! 

"I'll come with you.... I want to stretch my legs," he shouted as an immense 747 roared overhead, so low that all the details of the undercarriage were plainly visible. Maggie clutched her hair as the jet's spiraling backwash whipped the fresh ocean air into a mini-tornado. "Darlin'," she shouted back, "you don't have to do that." Then, seeing his determination, she decided to try another proven tactic. 

As the automatic door opened, she leaned close and whispered, "I'm buyin' female stuff." Her eyes widened knowingly. "Stuff men don't want to know about! Why don't you go buy us a lottery ticket. Today might be your lucky day." 

Embarrassed, now that he had insisted on accompanying her, Derek wandered over to the lottery machine. He rummaged in his pocket, looked at the touch screen, then enquiringly at the clerk, who stood behind the photo counter filing her hot pink nails. 

"What do I do?" he asked in bewilderment. He had never before purchased a lottery ticket and it all seemed quite confusing. 

The young woman glanced skywards... why did she always get them! Strange accent, must be some foreigner. "You mark your numbers on that slip of paper... like this," she explained in exaggeratedly slow, but Spanish flavored English. 

"What numbers?" he asked, looking to her for guidance. 

"Tell you what... why don't you go for a 'Quik Pick'?" she suggested. "Just put your dollar in the slot and touch that little symbol for 'Super Lotto Plus', then when the screen changes, press the 'Quik Pick' sign. The machine will pick the numbers for you and spit the ticket out that door at the bottom." 

"Computers!" he groaned, but catching sight of her irritated expression, quickly changed his mind. "Jah... that sounds a goot idea." 

From down the aisle, Maggie half-listened to the conversation as she made her selection... a box of condoms, large, with "spiraled ridges for added pleasure," she read on the package. She smiled. "We'll see," she murmured. "Better take two." 

She also bought some toothpaste, two toothbrushes, shaving things.... She hadn't dared remove anything from the guest bathroom... Derek would have noticed immediately... and on a whim she grabbed a disposable camera and a magazine from the rack beside the cashier. 

Like every man she had ever taken shopping... Derek was waiting for her beside the door... clutching his ticket and a newspaper, and ready to go. 

"What numbers did you get, Sweet Pea?" 

"Sweat Pea!" He grimaced. The precept had long ago given up trying to break Maggie Hamilton, Texan, of her "honeys" and "sugars" and "Sweet Peas." It was as much a part of her as her wicked, earthy wit and her love of her dogs. It only vanished when Judge Margaret Hamilton emerged in full force. He squinted at pale numbers on the orange and white ticket and read, "16-30-35-43-46 and the 'mega number' is 4. What do you think?" 

"Don't give up the day job, Darlin'. It won't get you any further than your jokes." She patted his arm affectionately and gave it a tug. "Come on, let's go before that boy gets impatient!" 

+ 

**_LAX_**

With a determined look on her face, Maggie linked her arm through Derek's and steered him along the crowded concourse of domestic carriers. Nick, who had told them he'd wait in the car, followed discreetly behind, out of the precept's sight, with two suitcases and two overnight bags precariously balanced on a trolley. 

"Where did you say you'd meet her?" Derek asked, very confused at the way this trip to the airport was going. "This is departures... not arrivals. Shouldn't we be headed towards?..." His exasperated complaint was interrupted. 

"Darlin', trust me. Things have changed since you were here last. I know a short cut... this is home turf." 

Moments later, they halted at the United check-in desk. Miraculously there was no line. Maggie rummaged in her sizeable purse and produced two tickets, and as a precaution, two passports, then imperiously beckoned Nick forward. 

"How did you get my passport?" Derek sputtered in shock. "I left that in San Francisco." 

"Judge Margaret Hamilton is not without resources," she replied, drawing herself to her full height, "even in Babylon by the Bay." Maggie smiled an enigmatic smile that rivaled Derek's at his inscrutable best. 

The former SEAL grinned widely and wished he had a camera... the look on his friend's face was priceless. It ranged from confusion to panic... something akin a deer caught in semi's headlights. 

The very fact that he had permitted his face to reveal anything grated at Derek. With a sharp glower first at Nick, then at Maggie, he snapped, "This is entrapment... a petty, underhanded conspiracy!" But his spear of momentary anger bounced from the wall of Maggie's irrepressible personality. 

"The professor gets an A plus," the judge retorted. "Yes, Darlin'... it is a conspiracy... to get you to take a real vacation... fun... sun... sand... and sex, with me.... But if you're not interested...." 

In that instant, with a turn of her head, a wicked grin, and a sweep of her hand through her nutmeg hair, it suddenly dawned on Nick who Maggie Hamilton reminded him of... Katherine Hepburn... in some scene where she'd cut Spencer Tracy or Cary Grant down to size. 

Derek saw the expression on Maggie's face... he loved that "playful wickedness" in her character. He sensed the concern of both his friends. They were determined he should take this trip.... He felt their absolute certainty that he needed it. Go with the flow, Rayne, he told himself. They might just be right. A break would be good... still... simply on the principle of the thing, he couldn't let such behavior slide by without receiving a barb or two. 

"Margaret... might I remind you that you are a judge, sworn to uphold the law and to dispense justice. You profess to love the law... yet you insult it... and you insult me, Madam. This is no less than kidnaping.... And you, Sir," he said, turning toward Nick. "This is insubordination at the very least... treason and mutiny at most. When I return we will have words. You take my meaning!" 

Nick did take his meaning, but decided the price would be worth paying. The irony of Derek Rayne criticising them for bending rules wasn't lost on him, nor he suspected, on his precept. The truth of it was... what rules had been bent? Only that of failing to consult the god-almighty precept, Derek Rayne. 

"Shit, what's he gonna do, shoot me!" Still, that's my precept, he grinned... all that self-righteous bluster. He _**is**_ getting better! 

The two conspirators then heard Derek mutter under his breath, "You should have asked." Both felt a twinge of guilt as they caught a slight tenor of hurt lying beneath the words. 

"What?... and miss all the fun of having our heads bitten off?" Maggie countered as her hand slipped around the precept. "Besides, I did consult you... what did you think all those brochures were about? I sure as hell wasn't lookin' for a retirement home... for me... or you." Her hand found what it sought. 

Suddenly Derek jumped and turned to the judge in shock. "Maggie!" he exclaimed. 

"Just checkin', Darlin'," she innocently replied, as she propelled the precept toward the gate. "Don't you worry, Punkin," she called back to Nick. "I'll take real good care of him... if you'll take good care of Marigold. I hope she's not early like last time... neither of wants anything premature on our hands!" 

The look on Maggie's face was a combination of "the cat that ate the canary" and no small dose of lust. As for the precept... he had surrendered for the moment, and turned with a shrug and a wry grin to wave good-bye. The last glimpse Nick saw of them was as they joined a line at the far end of the boarding ramp and were swallowed up by the crowd. They were traveling "tourist"! Nick snorted with pleasure... Derek Rayne... kidnaped to travel tourist... he'll love that! Had Maggie done that to Derek on purpose, he wondered... to pluck a few tail feathers... and teach him how the common folk lived? 

"Poor guy don't stand a chance," Nick murmured in delight as he eagerly strode back toward the parking structure with his keys jangling in his hand. "Course... she's got a bear cub on her hands compared to the grizzly she'll have before the day's out." Somehow he suspected that Maggie could handle it. It's an interesting match, he thought for a moment, but it wouldn't last two weeks as a marriage. Then his mind shifted toward the long, slow drive home and the blissful image of an empty house... nothing to do but work on the Mustang and keep an eye on Marigold. He smiled at the thought of a blissful absence of an improving pianist... peace and quiet.... "Amen and hallelujah!" he said happily to the empty, concrete stairwell as yet another jet rumbled in take-off. 

$$$$$$$$$$$ 

Part 6 

Miami, Florida... evening 

"That was the worse flight I have ever taken! Mijn Gott, how many people did they cram into that flying cigar tube? Surely too many to be safe," Derek muttered. "My knees are going to be purple... and how long did we wait on the damned runway in Dallas? How can they treat people that way?" He looked across the taxi at Maggie who was studiously watching the passing sights and totally ignoring his complaints. 

The precept paused in his litany to try to get his bearings... to no avail. He recognized nothing. "Now where are we going?" he growled. "I've not been to Miami since before Father died. Margaret, I don't like playing blind man's bluff." 

The taxi driver glanced over his shoulder and thought about announcing their prospective destination, but decided that was the wife's prerogative. He wished her well... this guy was a bear with a sore head. 

"Hush now, Darlin'. The flight was cramped right enough. It's Spring break... lots of people are headin' for the Florida sunshine and Disney World." In the orange glow of streetlights, she gazed over to catch sight of the precept's furrowed brow as he stared from the window. He was chewing on his inner cheek and had called her "Margaret," which Maggie knew was the final step before a full out explosion. It was time for the placatory approach. 

"It was a long, tiresome flight, but we're here now," she said with a voice as sweet as the smell of Texas bluebells. "We'll have a nice supper, an early night, and finish our trip bright eyed and bushy tailed tomorrow. You'll see... a nice, hot bath and a full tummy'll set you right in no time." 

+ 

Hotel Excelsior, Miami Beach 

At last the cab pulled up outside the Hotel Excelsior. Seeing the marquee, Derek snorted and recalled a previous 'Excelsior' that had failed to live up to its name. Sloan had always said "the classier the name, the more bedbugs." He caught Maggie's expression, and decided to hold his tongue for the moment. 

Twenty minutes later, he had to confess that the management of the Excelsior had performed to a level equal to its name. Check-in had been rapid and without complication. A private elevator had whisked them to the penthouse level and the porter, a veteran who had seen many an exhausted, bickering couple, had the sense to keep his mouth shut, rather than indulging in the usual rote recitation of the hotel's amenities. 

As the door swung open, the precept peered inside, determined to find problems... simply on the principle of the thing. "It's not so bad," he finally admitted... grudgingly. 

"You're damned right 'it's not so bad'," Maggie snapped under her breath. "You have no idea how many strings I had to pull and how many markers I had to call in to get this 'not so bad room'." Dammit! She'd had it!.... She was tired and hungry and she stunk. Was Derek Rayne worth all this grief, she wondered. 

The very wise and silent porter deposited their overnight bags on the tiled floor of the foyer. "Shall I unpack for you, sir?" he finally asked. 

Derek turned to tip the man. "No... thank you... Maury," he replied, reading the man's badge. 

"Thank you, sir!" said the elderly man, noting the generous tip. "Anything you need, sir, call room service," he instructed as he stepped into the suite to give a quick tour. "There's fruits and goodies for you in the gift basket. The wet bar is fully stocked and there's champagne chilling in the refrigerator, courtesy Excelsior management." 

Walking across the plush carpeting, he pushed open the door to one of the bedrooms. "The other one is identical... and the bath has a Jacuzzi. If you should care to get out... the supper club has a decent floor show... and the restaurant's not bad. Just avoid the shellfish... it's not the chef's forte," Maury informed them conspiratorially. "I'm sure I don't need to warn you about the street or the beach... it's a big city and tourists are targets." 

Derek suppressed a grin... the hotel management might have expected a more ringing endorsement, but Maury had probably been around so long that little impressed him save a whopping, good tip. "We'll call for you, should we need anything at all," the precept said solemnly as he watched the man leave. 

Relieved to see the heavy, wooden door close on the outside world, Derek tossed his jacket on a chair and trailed off to the bedroom, where he flopped onto the king-sized bed. "Peace and quiet," he murmured. All those people on the plane, each with their own worries and joys, had been suffocating. He had struggled to maintain his "barrier," to keep his "Sight" from overwhelming him with their emotions, but it had left him drained, foul tempered, and with a nagging headache. All he wanted to do now was relax and sleep... yes... deep, blissful sleep. 

* * * 

Maggie wandered to the table to inspect the gift basket, which was wonderful... full of fascinating, little treasures... cheeses and chocolates... real truffles... crackers and small jars of caviar and jams... tiny bottles of expensive liqueurs... all, of course, emblazoned with Hotel Excelsior. Her vacation budget was going to be blown for the next decade. C'est la vie, she thought, as she turned to glance out the plate glass window at the well-lit beach below and the dark sea beyond. Off shore lay a long rectangle of lights... a cruise ship headed into port. 

Drawing the drapes, she continued her exploration. She was delighted with the bathroom. It was deliciously decadent, maroon and silver décor with art deco tiling, whispers of old Miami Beach. But best of all there was a huge, pink marble bath. She selected a bottle of bath essence... opened it and sniffed... Estee Lauder... hmmm... nice... and turned on the taps. 

"Darlin'," she called as she undressed. "I'm takin' a bath... how about you joinin' me? Tub's plenty big!... Might be more fun if it wasn't!..." 

No answer... this wasn't the response she wanted. Was the damned man still sulking? Maggie donned the ubiquitous white, terry robe with the Excelsior "E" embroidered on the pocket and padded off toward the bedroom. "Darlin'" was fast asleep, and snoring fit to bust. "Sheeeit!" Maggie cursed. That was definitely not the response she had wanted. Still... he did look so tired... poor baby. 

She gently slipped off his shoes and undid his shirt and belt. Looking down at the innocence of his sleeping face, she smiled and resisted the urge to plant a kiss on those parted lips, "You sleep, Darlin'" she whispered as she brushed aside that ever-unruly lock that had dropped over his brow. "Sleep," she murmured again, then returned to her waiting bath. 

* * * 

Maggie luxuriated in the deep, pulsing water. Heat enveloped her and eased her aches and pains. She stretched her legs out, breathed deeply, and closed her eyes. Losing all sense of time, she drifted on a haze of perfumed steam. 

"Noo!... Gott!... Neen!... Alstublieft!" Maggie's eyes shot open. "Please, no!" That was Derek! What the hell was wrong? She leapt from the bath, grabbed the robe, and hurried to the bedroom. 

Derek still lay on the bed, asleep, but in the grips of a nightmare. He was panting heavily. Sweat beaded on his face. Dark pools of crimson stained his shirt. His expression was one of pain and sheer terror. "No!" he screamed as he twisted and turned, fighting to escape from some horror. 

"Derek, honey." Maggie knelt on the bed beside him and gently shook him, trying to wake him. 

Glass shattered behind her... she turned to see the gilt, bedroom mirror crack from side to side. It then fragmented into a spider's web of splintering glass. Irrationally, Maggie's mind latched onto the lines, The mirror crack'd from side to side. 'The curse is come upon me!' cried the Lady of Shalott. 

The plate glass windows in both rooms began to vibrate... clattering, humming worse than the Northridge quake. Then the phone hurtled across the room to crash against the wall, while the bedside water carafe flew straight upward and smashed into the ceiling above the bed. Maggie cried out in pain as a sliver of glass stung her forehead. 

"Derek... Derek, honey, wake up!" She cried, shaking him again. Her own heart threatened to pound its way out of her chest. 

"What!" The hazel eyes flew open... all became instantly quiet. The precept gasped.... What had happened? He had been back at the portal, but it hadn't been the same... now what? "Maggie... what happened?" 

Panting, he gazed around at the chaos in the room, then noticed the trickle of blood running down the side of his friend's face. "My Gott, Maggie?" He pushed himself up and stretched a finger toward the scarlet trail. "I've hurt you." 

"Hush Darlin'... hush," she murmured, pulling him close, feeling him tremble. "It's just a scratch, that's all. I get worse playing with Marigold. Everything's OK, no real harm done. You had... a dream... a nightmare. Sshhh...," she crooned. Her mind whirled at what had just happened. "You've got a little nose bleed... here." She dabbed at his nose with the sleeve of her robe. "Lean over," she instructed. "Put your head down." She knew Derek was reliving something from the past... something hellish. All she wanted to do was hold him close, and tell him everything would be OK. "Please God, let that be true," she murmured. 

The precept had by now collected most of his wits. He was still trembling, but his breathing was less ragged. He exhaled heavily as he wiped his nose with the back of his hand and absorbed the full devastation of the suite. "Let me see the cut," he demanded, pushing her hair aside. With relief, he discovered it was a small nick above her eyebrow, a place guaranteed to spew blood like an open artery, but not likely to scar, nor cause any real harm. He shuddered to think how much worse it could have been. What was he becoming? 

There was a loud pounding on the suite's door. "What's happening? You folks need help?" Maggie recognised Maury's voice. 

Derek pushed himself to the edge of the bed. "Better let him in." he said dejectedly, sitting on the edge and cradling his head in his hands. 

Maggie nodded, tightened her robe, and hurried to open the door. Maury rushed in and whistled when he saw the state of the suite... the bedroom especially. "The police are gonna have to be called about this, ma'am," he said quietly. Noticing the blood on her face and robe, he winced. "Did he do that... the bastard?" 

"No, Maury... no.... You don't understand." Maggie leapt to Derek's defense. "It was a bad dream... a nightmare. He didn't know what was happening." 

The porter looked over at the man who was obviously still struggling with his inner demons. "Was he in Vietnam," he asked, "or Kuwait?" 

"No, but he's fought his own battles... against foes just as deadly," Maggie quietly replied. "Now... let's not make too much fuss about all this. I'll pay for all the damage, and with a little extra for the... 'inconvenience'. I imagine you've seen worse with rock bands. But we need to keep this to ourselves? Here's my card...." 

As Maury looked at the business card, his eyes widened. "OK, don't you worry, 'Judge' Hamilton. Is he a cop or something?" he asked, sensing the truth of her statement. 

"Or something," she confirmed. 

"I'll sort it out," he said, but looking around, added, "You folks are gonna have to move to another room. You can't sleep in this. We're pretty full, but...." 

Maggie cast an anxious glance toward the precept, who now seemed to be regaining control... his breathing had evened, his color was returning, the trembling had stopped. She shook her head. "We'll be OK," she assured the porter. "We'll just move to the other bedroom." 

"OK," Maury decided, "but why don't you go get some fresh air, maybe a bite to eat, while I get housekeeping to clean up the glass... by the time you get back this will be sorted out." 

"Maury, bless you. You're a real gentleman, I won't forget this.... If you ever get to LA and need a ticket fixed, I'm your gal." Maggie kissed the elderly man on his cheek, both embarrassing him, and pleasing him. He offered her a bashful grin and left on his errand of mercy. 

Returning to the bedroom, she said, "Come on Darlin'," and dragged Derek towards the bathroom. "We both need to get cleaned up, then we'll go for a walk around the pool and have some supper. Everything is gonna' be fine, Sugar." 

Derek managed a weak half-smile. "I hope so, Maggie. Gott, I hope so. What if I can't control this? What if I'd really hurt you? What if that had happened on the plane? Don't let me sleep on the plane tomorrow... promise." 

"I won't... I promise, Darlin'." 


	2. FORTUNE'S WHEEL: Part II: 7 thru 12

**Part 7**

**_Later..._**

Derek and Maggie had taken their turn around the grounds, but the precept had rejected the idea of dinner... unless by room service... later. Housekeeping had come and gone, and both the maid and Maury had been generously tipped for their troubles and their silence. Too tired to change, Derek still wore his bloodied shirt. He sat, slumped in the armchair, with a mug of strong, black coffee cupped in his large hands. Maggie watched him through lowered lids as she finished tidying up. He seemed diminished somehow... as if he was shrinking in upon himself. She noticed the hand gripping the cup was still trembling. 

"Darlin'," she said, stepping behind him to rub his taut shoulders. "I'm gonna finish that bath I started a couple of hours ago.... OK?" She tried to give her voice a light and cheerful air, when she felt exactly the opposite. "Maybe you should have a long, relaxing one later.... Might do a world of good." 

She frankly admitted to herself that she had been scared by the PK incident, and even more so by its affect upon Derek. The ultimate "control freak" had been unable to control this. In fact, as she thought about it, it had been a very long time since he had been in control over much of anything... especially his own body and health. She was a control freak herself and could easily imagine the horrors of the past months... and... she had, like a dimwit, taken away his choice, his consent, his control over this trip. 

The precept glanced up to give her a feeble smile. "I'll be fine," he assured her, but his eyes told her otherwise. They revealed a haunted emptiness like she'd seen in court in the eyes of witnesses to atrocities or who, themselves, had been victims of the unspeakable. 

"Hon," she said. "I'm sorry about the way I handled the trip. I should have...." 

Derek interrupted her with a shake of the head. "No, my dear," he said. "The trip is a good idea.... Sometimes I'm just a jackass for the sake of being a jackass." He brought her hand to his lips to give her knuckles a gentle kiss. "Relax... go finish that bath." 

She patted his shoulder. "I won't be long," she said. Grabbing her toiletry bag from her overnight case, Maggie made sure her cell phone was concealed in the bundle as she headed once more towards the sumptuous bathroom. She needed to talk to someone... someone who would understand. 

Once the bath taps were running to mask her voice, she sat down on the stool, punched in her home number, and heard the phone ring. 

"Nick Boyle," said the answering voice. 

Maggie could hear Marigold barking in the background. Never had she wished so much that she was back on home ground, surrounded by her things, with her big, furry baby close by. 

"Hello?..." Nick's voice came hesitantly. "This is Judge Hamilton's residence. Can I help you?" 

She took a deep breath, then answered firmly, "Nick... it's me, Maggie." 

"Hi... you sound strange... echoing...." The young man's tone suddenly had an taut edge to it. "Is everything OK?" he asked abruptly. 

"No...." She struggled to tame the break in her voice. "Derek had a nightmare... an awful one. Scared the shit outta me. He had a PK episode... while he was sleeping.... The room was trashed... stuff was flying around... glass broken. It was a mess... and... Nick... he had a nose bleed, too." She paused, then admitted ruefully, "I didn't understand... before, when you tried to tell me. I didn't realise it was that bad...." She ran out of steam. 

"Son-of-a-bitch!" Nick cursed angrily. He had been sure the precept was well along the road to recovery. Obviously, he had been wrong. "It was bad at first," he admitted. "But I thought it was settling down. I thought he was getting it under control. 

"I'm sorry, Maggie... I made a mistake.... I put you... and him at risk. I should've stopped this trip. It was too soon." There was a deep, soul wrenching sigh on Nick's end of the line. "God... maybe he needs help that we can't give him, but I'm terrified of what might happen if 'the-powers-that-be' get wind of the PK. Derek didn't want it known... and...." 

Maggie suddenly interrupted, "Don't you go blaming yourself, Nick Boyle. Remember... I was the one who damned near kidnaped him." She paused to rest her head on her hand and to take breath that neared a sob. She wrapped her fingers in her hair, and finally confessed, "I underestimated the situation.... I only saw the odd, broken glass or flying book. I didn't want to see... or know anything else." 

"But, I did, Maggie... I knew," Nick insisted. "What the hell did I think I was doing? His safety is my responsibility... mine... I was derelict in my duties. I ignored the dangers.... I buried my head in the sand and convinced myself it was all gonna be OK." 

"Then it was you and me both, Darlin'," she replied. "We're a fine pair of 'nannies'.... We both had our heads in the sand." 

"Is he OK?" the ex-SEAL asked with growing anxiety. "Are you? Do you want me to fly back there... bring you home? I can't get the jet, but I can go up and get the chopper... or I could charter something outta here." 

One part of herself longed to do just that... go home, take Derek back where he'd be safe, cared for by her, by Nick, by his friends... maybe try this again... later. She could turn her post over to Judge Watanabe and take a leave of absence. 

But the other part ruled. "No... I'm fine," she told Nick, and herself. She rose and walked over to turn off the spigots, then turned to the mirror and wiped away the steam. She examined the face that stared back at her... a quitter's face, she wondered. She winced as she touched the small cut above her eye and realised how much worse it could have been. 

"Maggie?... Is Derek OK?" Nick asked more urgently. 

Finally, she spoke again. "Right now... he's sitting in there with a huge pot of coffee. He's determined not to go back to sleep. How long can he keep that up, for God's sake!" Her heart ached for her friend, torturing himself about something over which he had no control. 

"He's really shaken, Nick.... He keeps asking what if it had happened while we were in the air. I think, if we give up now, it'll knock his confidence... maybe for good." She considered slowly, carefully as she sank down on the edge of the marble tub. "We'll go on.... I'm going to get him... get us... through this." 

"You sure?" the younger man asked. The concern was evident in his voice. "Maybe I should come back... just be there... in the background. I can stay out of sight... explain to the staff that I'm a bodyguard giving my boss some room, but still on the job. They gotta be used to that sort of thing." 

"No," was the firm reply. 

Nick tried again. "This isn't the vacation you expected, is it? No one would think less of you, if you came home." 

"You're wrong there, Darlin'... I would.... I'd wonder what sort of a fair weather friend Margaret Mae Hamilton is." Her voice had become cool, determined, nearly without accent. "We'll keep going. I know this trip is what he needs if he's going to get his get-up-and-go back. He's got to get back in the saddle, in more ways than one. He needs his spirit back... his real self." 

There was a long pause on the line. "You still there?" she asked quietly. 

"Yeah... I was trying to figure the best thing to do," he replied slowly. 

"We'll manage," Maggie insisted. "How's my furry baby doing?" she asked, shifting the conversation to a lighter tone. Simply talking with Nick had helped. 

"She's still waddling around," he replied with a chuckle, "but you should've warned me about the mommy thing... if she's not washing me, she's washing your bowling ball. You'll have the cleanest damned bowling ball in LA." 

Maggie laughed. "Yep... sounds like the time's gettin' close. She gets real mommy mania. Don't worry, hon... she knows what she's doin', and if there's trouble, Hallie's number's on the fridge.... She's a good doggy midwife. 

"So long, Sugar." 

"Wait!... Maggie!... Remember... Derek's like a loaded gun... with the safety off. Just be careful." 

"I will, Sonny-boy.... He will get it under control.... I know he will. Derek's too stubborn not to," she reassured the former SEAL, and herself. Maggie's confidence, her bravado, had returned along with her drawl. "'Sides, I'm used to dealin' with loaded weapons.... They don't go off half-cocked in my hands." 

"Bye...," Nick spluttered, unsure what to read into Maggie's last remark and knowing that was exactly the effect she was wanted. "Call me, if you need me." 

"I will, Nick," came a soft, determined response. "I promise... and you take good care of my fur ball, y'hear?" 

%%%%%%%%%%%%% 

**Part 8**

**_Saint Theodore... Tuesday_ **

Resting his chin in his hand, Derek stared from the window of the small seaplane at the tranquil paradise spread below... a sapphire sky met a turquoise sea, bejeweled with emeralds set in silver. He was beyond tired. After the nightmare, he'd been afraid to go back to sleep. Instead, he had sat in an arm chair watching CNN and sipping cup after cup of black coffee till long past dawn. 

"My Gott," he murmured again, "what if that 'episode' had happened in the air?" The fear haunted him... he could have been responsible for hundreds of deaths. How could he stay awake for the rest of his life? 

Derek struggled to regain his previous optimism.... This recovery was slow and hard... one step forward... followed by a set back or two... but he'd make it, because he had to make it. William Sloan's voice whispered through his mind, "No option." 

Somehow he had to get this thing under control. Perhaps Maggie was right... rest, relaxation... that was what he needed to get himself back in balance, his mind on an even keel. Balance and harmony were always the dual keys to recovery. He prayed it would be so. He was determined he would make it so. 

"Relax, Rayne... chill down... breathe," he instructed himself. He chuckled at the word... "chill"... that was a Nick word. Their relationship had not been a one way street... it had been a traffic circle... an exchange of so many things... both momentous and trivial. 

Turning back to the window, he realised the plane was beginning its descent to the small, exclusive Caribbean island of Saint Theodore. He knew the place by reputation only. It was an elite resort where the well connected and well-heeled could relax. Maggie had thrust a brochure in his hand; he glanced down to once more read the description. "The four-hundred-acre island is quiet and peaceful. It avoids the despoiled atmosphere of the Caribbean's other islands. The resort complex is surrounded by gardens and a world-class, championship golf course. It offers snorkeling, scuba diving, sailing, tennis, hiking trails, beautiful beaches. and, of course, absolute privacy." Knowing Maggie, he smiled and wondered how much "rest" he would get. 

With a change in engine tone, the seaplane banked to the left and began its final approach. "OK, folks...." The voice of the pilot echoed round the small cabin. "We're coming in to land. As you can see the water's flat as a pancake, but please make sure your seat belts are fastened and do not leave your seats until given the all clear." 

"Darlin'," Maggie's voice whispered in his ear, "it's simply gorgeous, ain't it!" She reached out to take his hand as the plane kissed the water and bounced with a shudder. "I hate this bit," she said, embarrassed to admit her anxiety. 

Derek gave her hand a comforting squeeze. "Me, too," he agreed as a burst of spray hit the windows and they bounced again. 

Maggie tightly closed her eyes. She held her breath until the plane remained on the water, then turned to glide back toward the dock. There was a jolt as two brawny, young men pulled the plane into its moorings. 

"That's it, folks. Welcome to Saint Theodore." The pilot began his routine landing speech, "Don't worry about your luggage. It'll be taken care of and promptly delivered to your lodgings. You see that pretty, young lady standing on the dock?... She's here to see you settled... take care of any problems. Enjoy your stay." 

The door swung open and Derek and Maggie stepped out onto the firm planking. Maggie giggled as her knees shuddered and Derek steadied her. 

"Mr. and Mrs. Bernard? I'm Rosa, your personal liaison," said an exotic, young woman with an island lilt. She was strikingly beautiful in her flower print sarong with a scarlet bloom pinned into cascades of dark, curly hair. A dazzling smile lit her face as she extended her hand. "Welcome to Saint Theodore. Your accommodation is all ready for you. If you'll follow me, please." 

"Mr. and Mrs. Bernard?" Derek hissed. "Really, Maggie... or is it Marigold now?" 

"Hush now, Darlin', I thought that would be more discreet... that's all." They followed Rosa along the rickety, but suitably picturesque, dock. Stirred by the plane's pontoons, waves slapped against the pilings, throwing the scent of salt water into the muggy air. A canopied golf cart, a surrey with the fringe on top, waited at the end of the pier. 

Maggie halted. "It's only a half-mile along the beach... shall we walk?" 

"Yes... let's," Derek replied eagerly. "My legs need a stretch... and we can walk in the sand." His voice and sudden lightness gave him the aura of a small boy given permission to play. 

"We sure can, Darlin'," Maggie agreed, as she stepped out of her sandals, onto the hot, white beach. 

Derek scarcely took a moment longer to pull off his shoes and socks, and roll up his trouser legs, before he joined his companion in the deep, soothing sand. He wiggled his toes in delight and felt the tension begin to ebb away like the shimmering waves beyond. 

Rosa smiled. "I'll see to your luggage and meet you at the cottage." She thought she recognised Mrs. Bernard, but Mr. Bernard appeared to be a new and improved model... taller, much thinner. A nicer one, she thought as she watched them stroll hand in hand along the beach. A "keeper," perhaps? 

* * * 

As they walked along the hot sand, Maggie struggled to keep up a flow of light, inconsequential conversation, when, in truth, she was afraid she was out of her depth. The thought mocked her... Judge Margaret Hamilton, who daily sat on some of the most difficult cases, who had dealt with murderers and the worst sorts of human refuse, was out of her depth, but Derek's nightmare had been a frightening experience. She could cope with the paranormal phenomenon of psychokenesis... Derek had always been different... and she was not unaware of the Legacy and its work... but she feared the physical and emotional strain that it placed upon her friend. She squeezed his hand tightly... poor boy. What has he been through, she wondered. Am I the right person to help him? 

Shit, Maggie-mae, you're probably the only one who can, she lectured herself. He needs to loosen up... he's wound tight as a watch spring. 

Their eyes met; Derek reached out to touch the small band-aide above her eyebrow. "Maggie... I'm so sorry," he sighed as he delivered a gentle kiss to the spot. 

"I know, Sugar. It wasn't your fault," she assured him. "We'll get rid of these ol' nightmares of yours. Just you wait and see! We'll banish them for the nasty, ol' ghosts they are." 

"I think maybe you will," he agreed. His arms encircled her and this time he kissed her lightly on the lips. He pulled back for a moment to stare intently into her sapphire eyes. The next kiss was deeper. 

"My, my, Mr. Bernard... what will the neighbors say?... Smoochin' on the beach like a couple of teenagers," she teased. "Come on, Dr. Rayne... we're nearly there." 

* * * 

They completed the remainder of the walk in silence as both absorbed the tranquility and soft beauty of the place. Tropical greens bled into white sands, which trailed off into ripples of pale, sea foam green, thence to aqua to turquoise and on to azure and ultramarine, a sequence of hues that bespoke a slide towards the depths of the sea. 

"That's it... the end cottage. Isn't it great!" Maggie asked with excitement. The shuttered, whitewashed house sat behind a picket fence in its own well-tended garden, mere yards from the beach's edge. Honeysuckle and bougainvillea draped its porch, while large trees and low, bushy palms sheltered it from prying eyes. 

Maggie held tightly to Derek's large hand as she pulled him up the wooden steps. Pausing to take in the scene, the precept smiled at the delicate, glass windchime that tinkled in the gentle breeze. Their nearest neighbors were in a similar structure three-hundred yards away. Behind the cottages, there was a small service road upon which the golf cart was now parked. 

Seeing her charges arrive, Rosa, hurried through the house to meet them. She swung open the screen door. "I'm sure you'll find everything you want inside," she explained, ushering them in and beginning her tour. 

The interior was plain, but comfortable... a polished, wood floor contrasted with pristine whites and airy pastels. A ceiling fan whirred above, while the warm sea breeze wafted in through a multitude of French doors. First, she showed them a large living room with a comfortable, chintz sofa, armchairs, and a cupboard that concealed a large screen TV and music system. 

"The master bedroom's through there, and the bathroom is here," Rosa said. "Second bedroom... there, and kitchen through here." She pushed open the louvered doors for them to enter. "I think this is the nicest room... as much a tropical, summer parlor as a kitchen... and if you leave the doors open, the sea breeze blows straight through the whole house." 

She smiled and continued, "We always deliver breakfast, once you ring and say you're ready... or, if you prefer, it can be at a set time. The main complex has two cordon bleu restaurants.... There's no need to book, and, of course, if you choose, you can have meals from either delivered. But should you wish to cook," she said, opening the cupboards to display racks of spices and various utensils, "then everything's here... simply let us know what fresh ingredients you require.... And, finally... my favorite place on the whole island...." She led them out the back door, to a secluded garden, ablaze with flowers, scented shrubs, and a trickling fountain. "I don't know why, but this garden always has the best flowers. It must be the location." 

Concluding her orientation, Rosa pointed and said, "The hot tub's just over there... and there's a wonderful hammock in the arbor. If there's anything you want... anything at all... just call and someone will be out within minutes. But if you want privacy... peace and quiet... you're guaranteed that as well. We even have patrol boats out at sea to guarantee no tawdry, unwanted visitors." She looked round to satisfy herself that all was in order. "Remember... anything at all... call me at any hour... just hit eight on the autodial... that's me. Bye now," she said, heading for the gate. 

"Thank you," Maggie called, then turned to Derek. "Look at those orchids," she exclaimed, reaching over to touch a cluster of exotic, purple flowers that rested on a low, wrought iron table, "Aren't they gorgeous, Darlin'... so delicate?" 

The precept smiled, stepped behind her, and wrapped his arms round her waist. "They are beautiful, but beside you, 'Darlin',' they fade away." 

"Oh, hush now, you sweet talker, you.... I know what I am and so do you," she protested, twisting round to look him square in his hazel eyes. "I'm a forty-something-year-old battle ax, who enjoys a little fun and a lotta sex, specially with you, Sugar... with never a string in sight." Maggie's smile lit her entire face. She was pleased with the compliment, but was more delighted with the way Derek seemed to be relaxing... relaxing enough to offer the compliment in his old, gallant, European style. This had been a good idea, she thought, as she brushed his hair from his brow and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "Come on, sweet talker... we both need a nice, long afternoon nap... and I do mean a nap... as in sleep." 

%%%%%%%%%%%% 

**Part 9**

**_Early evening..._**

On the Caribbean island of St. Theodore, a cacophony of birdsong filled the air as species of every shape and color sought their evening roosts and told each other of the day's events. 

A gentle sea breeze wafted through the open doors of the cottage to tickle the diaphanous mosquito netting, which draped the bed. Maggie lay beside Derek with her head propped on her hand. He'd been asleep for nearly three hours. She gazed down at the straight nose, dimpled chin, and strong bones, then reached over to gently toy with a wavy lock of salt-and-pepper hair. More salt now, than pepper, she noted. His sleep had been peaceful, for which she thanked God. He needed it so badly. Life could be ironic... not so very long ago she had stood beside Derek's sickbed, afraid that it was his deathbed, praying that he would awaken, now here she was lying beside him and thanking God that he was asleep. 

She winced as she traced her finger down the long, white line on his chest, the reminder of a bullet next to the heart three years ago, and the small, round scars that told of feeding tubes and surgical interfaces. "What have you been through, Sugar?" she murmured. Hell, she thought, pure hell. 

Hazel eyes slowly opened. A lazy smile crossed the full lips. "Hi," he said as he focused upon Maggie's freckled face. 

"Darlin', you had a good, ol' sleep. No flying brik-a-brak this time. How do you feel?" she asked, continuing to play with the curl. 

"Goot," Derek replied as he breathed deeply and stretched beneath the soft, cotton sheet. Smiling again, he was pleased with the truth of the statement... he was feeling good... rested... interested! "So, what now, Mrs. Bernard?" he asked as he gazed into her blue eyes, which sparkled with mischief. 

"How 'bout a swim?" she suggested as she planted a quick kiss on his forehead, then rolled off the bed. 

"I'm not exactly dressed for swimming," he said. "Unless this is a clothing optional resort." 

"Not to worry, Honey Bunch. Judge Maggie-mae's got that covered," she responded with a wide grin. "We wouldn't want to end up in jail on indecent exposure charges. 

"Let's just see where Rosa put our things." Maggie opened the dresser drawers and began to rummage through. "Here you go, Darlin'." She tossed him a pair of flowered swim trunks that looked like something left over from the psychedelic era of his youth... they spoke of Jimi Hendrix, free love, and Woodstock. "Nick picked these up for you," she explained with a smile. "I hope he got the right size." 

"Thanks," Derek murmured between gritted teeth. Surveying the gaudy garment, he vowed revenge on his chief of security. "Remind me to thank him... properly." A job cataloging potsherds for the museum might be about right, he thought. Let him spend a week or so with a few thousand bits of clay... trying to figure out, which, if any, goes with another... describing each one in descriptive detail for the inventory... that should do nicely. 

+ 

Derek stretched again as he stepped onto the veranda. His joints cracked, but the taut motion felt sublime. He took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, allowing any remaining tension to float away on the tropical breeze. 

"Come on, Darlin'," said Maggie, grasping his hand and tugging him down the steps to the flower-lined path. The whitewashed gate creaked as they pushed it open to step onto the ivory sands. 

Beyond the reach of the trees' cooling shelter, the sands seared bare feet. "Ow! Ow!" Maggie yowled. With a giggle, she hopped joyfully from one foot to the other. "Come on, Professor, I'll race you." She dropped his hand and ran towards the surf. Sprinting after her, Derek stayed close on her heels, but didn't catch her. Let the wild mare have her head, he thought. 

As they reached the gently lapping sea, they rushed headlong into the warm, clear water. Relishing each other's company, they skipped and hollered, giggled and splashed one another like carefree children after the last school bell of the year. 

"You can't catch me, Mr. Bernard!" Maggie teased as she took a shallow dive and swam towards a raft that lay moored off shore. 

"Oh, I can't?" Derek shouted back and swam after her. His long, powerful strokes soon brought him to her side. As they reached the raft he planted his feet back on the shallow bottom, wrapped his arms around her, pulled her to him, and gave her a firm kiss on the mouth. "Maggie, thank you," he whispered breathlessly, "for being here for me... for being such a good friend. God's been good to me in the friend department, and I've no logical reason why." 

Marveling at his self-depreciating naivete, Maggie laughed and returned his warm hug. "Oh, Darlin' Dr. Rayne... because you're you... that's why.... But hush, now.... You and me... we don't need thanks... nor reasons." She kissed him gently on the tip of his nose. "Come on, Sugar... give me a leg up." 

With his large hands firmly positioned on her derriere, he pushed her up onto the rough planking. 

"'Leg up,' I said! You watch where you put those eager, little hands, buster," she said in mock anger, "or I might just find the right place to put 'em." 

Derek laughed and swept the water from his dripping hair, then climbed up beside her to stretch out and bask in the warmth of the sun's last rays. Turning his head, he watched the edge of the great, golden disc kiss the horizon, then sink below. The sky, the sea, the sparse clouds shone scarlet and orange. The island itself sank into wine-dark shadows, while the chatter of the birds seemed to reach a crescendo. 

The beauty of it, the God-given, simple immensity of it, lifted his soul. Smiling, he reached out to clasp Maggie's hand. Sometimes life was very good... at those moments there were no doubts, no fears, no demons nor creatures of the night... only pure joy in God's masterpiece. 

"Did you know, once upon a time, Dutch pirates used this island as a base?" Maggie asked. "Maybe one of your disreputable ancestors hopped about on his wooden leg along this very beach... complete with Polly Parrot on his shoulder!" 

Derek laughed again. "I don't think there's a 'Long John van der Silver' in the family tree... and the Raynes were far too devious to be mere pirates." 

"No maps leading to buried treasure?" Maggie feigned disappointment, but was interrupted by a loud grumbling emanating from Derek's stomach. "Come on, Cap'n... you got thunder in the tummy... gotta get some meat on your bones. Let's go back." Gratified by his disappointed expression, she smiled secretly as her happiness bubbled. "I ordered a picnic. We can hike down along the beach.... I know a place where we won't be disturbed," she added as she pushed off the raft in the shallowest of dives. 

+ 

_**Later... **_

The fat, round moon bathed the world in wash of luminosity. Across the vast, black sea ever-moving pinpricks of silver and pearl bounced and glinted... fairies' tears kissing the breathing, life-blood of the planet. Strands of silver beads swooshed and broke onto pearlescent sands as gentle waves slapped the beach. 

A fragrant breath of air drifted from the dense, tropical growth that sheltered the tiny cove. Flickering luminarias sat along the edge of a red, linen cloth, upon which lay the scattered remains of a picnic, while two champagne bottles rested upside down in an ice bucket. "That was very goot," Derek said, speaking over-loudly. The second bottle of champagne may have been a mistake... or a blessing. 

Maggie smiled at the thickness of his accent. "Sure was Cap'n, sir," she teased gently. "I'll bet you're one over the pieces of eight... or is it four sheets to the wind?" 

The precept grinned boyishly and snatched up a red napkin, from which he fashioned a pirate's head scarf. "Shiver me timbers... mate... avast there me hearties...." Brandishing a plastic knife, he tried to remember suitable phrases from old, swashbuckling films. Suddenly, he pushed himself to his feet and hopped toward Maggie on one leg. 

She giggled in delight... Derek playacting, even with an excruciatingly bad accent, was pure joy; he really was getting better. "You don't make a convincing buccaneer, Darlin'," she declared. "Where's your parrot?" 

"It's your treasure I wants, me wench," he growled. "I'll make you walk the plank to get it." He dropped to his knees beside her. "Or perhaps some other punishment?" he suggested with a hungry gleam in his eyes. 

"Oh my! Cap'n! Whatever do you have in mind? Surely you wouldn't ravish poor, innocent, li'l, ol' me?" Maggie responded as she pulled him to her. Gently, she began to kiss his neck, and then moved up to his ear. She nibbled the ridge, licked his inner ear, sucked on the lobe. She felt the skin beneath her fingers quiver. 

"Ohhh, Gott," he groaned. His eyes closed as he stretched his neck back, exposing it, offering Maggie more to snack on. "I surrender, wench... have your wicked way with me." 

"Mmmm, Darlin', you taste scrumptious," she murmured, kissing her way down his throat, stopping at the hollow at the base of his neck. "You can have my treasure, any day!" 

He reached for her, pulled her face to his, deeply inhaled the sweetness of her. The moonlight illuminated her sharp features, softening them in a gentle, silver light. Beginning with a tender kiss, he sucked on her bottom lip, and slowly ran his tongue over her teeth and into her mouth. 

The kiss deepened and they fell back onto the sand. Spending long minutes kissing, caressing, they each once more learned the other's body. Maggie's hands sought his hair, grasping it, stroking it, while his long, musician's fingers set her flesh aquiver like the vibrato of a violin string. 

Slowly, enticingly, he slipped the orange, spandex suit down her body, then pulled it over her legs and tossed it aside. "You look... lovely," he murmured, his voice husky, "my Texas enchantress." 

"Sweet talker," she whispered. 

His hand reached for her breast, held it gently, and, for a moment, he rested his head on her chest. He then drew an erect nipple into his mouth. His tongue caressed it, swirled around it, danced over it. 

"Oh, Darlin', that's so...," Maggie breathed as she again ran her fingers through his hair and sighed with absolute pleasure. She rolled on top of him, then responded in kind. He moaned as she gently bathed his chest with her tongue, kissing first one small, pink orb, then the other. 

"Now, about this plank...." Smiling, looking into his deep hazel eyes, she suggestively raised both eyebrows as her hand crept beneath the waistband of his flowered trunks. 

Beyond the red cloth's edge, one of the champagne bottles burst with the pop of a firecracker. Neither Maggie nor Derek noticed, or if they did, the surprise of it was insignificant compared to the feelings of an eternity encased in the moment. 

%%%%%%%%%%% 

**Part 10**

**_On the Beach... the next morning_**

Derek woke feeling uncomfortable... his neck ached and he was cold. Shivering slightly, he opened his eyes to find himself wrapped in Maggie, and both of them wrapped in the red picnic cloth, snuggled deeply into the sand. He smiled at the recollection of a most enjoyable night... well worth a few aches and pains. 

The sun's rays were beginning to lighten the eastern horizon. Rainbow-hued clouds were slowly drifting apart to reveal the soft blue of the early morning sky. Chatter arose from the jungle vegetation as the first birds of the day took flight. "Another perfect day in paradise," Derek murmured to himself as he wriggled free from the red cocoon. 

He had no trouble locating his gaudy swim trunks, which were still slightly damp and heavily impregnated with sand. "Yuck," he shuddered as he slipped them on. 

Maggie's bright, but more tasteful, suit lay nearby. He shook out the sand and placed it beside her. She still slept. Her hair, free from its constraints, tumbled over her shoulders and across her face. He swept the curls aside and gently kissed her forehead, then set about gathering the remains of their picnic, and the fragments of the shattered champagne bottle. 

"Mornin', Darlin'." He heard the familiar drawl. Maggie stretched and yawned, then uttered a little groan. "I'm gettin' too old for this," she murmured. 

"You! Never," Derek responded gallantly. 

She treated him to a sleepy, but dazzling smile as she felt her damp suit, rejected it, and tossed it into the picnic hamper. "Let's get back... I need a hot bath, a toothbrush, and some breakfast... not necessarily in that order." 

Maggie quickly fashioned a sarong from the tablecloth. "You wanna wear the napkins again, sweet thing... on the other end this time?" she teased. "Might be more comfortable. Me Jane... you Tarzan?" 

Derek's eyebrow rose, then he chuckled and reached down to pull her to her feet. "I'm not the Tarzan type... couldn't do the yell if I had to," he confessed. "Hope I got all the glass... damned, scary nuisance." 

"Look at the bright side, Sugar," said the judge as they began to walk back along the strand. "You get that thing saddle broke and we'll never need a corkscrew." Maggie shivered and snuggled up to Derek's warm body, he wrapped his arm protectively round her shoulder and gave her an affectionate squeeze. 

They meandered on in silence, absorbing the fresh, morning air, the freedom of the waves, the splendor of the rising sun. Finally, they paused to watch the antics of a pair of young, playful gulls. 

"Derek," Maggie said softly, looking up into his face... hoping she had chosen the right moment... had gauged his mood correctly. "Tell me what happened... last year. When I visited you... it was awful. You were so sick." She gnawed at her lower lip, then regained her composure. "You were wasting away in that coma. I knew in my heart it was the last time I'd see you." 

Staring first at the sun, then down at the sand at his feet, the precept was silent for long moments. She thought he would not respond, but finally, without looking at her, he began to speak. Pain echoed through his every word. "It's a long... long story. Some of it... I don't know... don't remember... will never really understand. 

"I was doing a favor for a friend... nothing to do with the Legacy." He gave poignant chuckle. "It was so mundane... I was just going to give a lecture at a junior college in the foothills east of Stockton. I'd had a long couple of days in London and a worse flight home, so Nick drove me... but we took a wrong turn at the wrong time... got caught in the Sierras in a blizzard. 

"Some strange things happened and, by the time they got us out, I was in pretty bad shape.... We thought it was going to be OK, but suddenly it wasn't.... It was like _**Alice Through the Looking Glass**_," he explained. 

Again he paused to stand, silently searching the pastel clouds for the right words... the right memories. At last he cleared the huskiness from his throat and began again, "While I was in the coma, somehow, I was linked to another me... another world. I lived another Derek Rayne's life for eight months... shared his body with him. It was like having a twin for a room mate. He was me... but not me... we... saw death claim dear friends... so much pain... suffering... such horrors that we of the Legacy must battle... but so far beyond mere demons and ghosts... the gates of Hell itself were threatening to burst open. In the end, we had to risk everything... our lives... our souls. We had to destroy everything... the House... everything! I don't know what became of the 'other' Derek... his world... his friends.... I think he somehow survived, but at the moment of destruction I was torn away and hurled back into my own life." 

Maggie nodded, unwilling to interrupt him. She saw the pain in his face, the haunted look deep within his hazel eyes. 

"My father...." Derek hung his head in pain, grief, shame. "My father was not the man I thought he was... but even there, I don't really know the truth from the illusion." 

Feeling a slight tremble, Maggie slipped her arm around his waist and pulled him closer. She had long ago formed the impression that Winston Rayne had been a tyrant, a man driven by his own demons... one who used his son mercilessly to achieve his own ends. But she also knew how much Derek revered his memory, so she held her tongue, took his hand, and squeezed it tightly. 

"Then," he continued, "when I woke from the coma... my health was gone... totally shattered.... When I first saw myself in a mirror, I thought of the photos of the people at Auschwitz. It was such a shock. My 'Sight' was gone too.... Things were all mixed up. What was my own memory?... What was a memory echoing from that 'other' world? I couldn't tell." 

"I should have come up," said Maggie. Her soft joking lost in a wave of guilt. "But they all said everything was going well." 

"No...," he replied with a shake of his head. "I had to keep everybody at bay... even you. They were doing as I asked." Suddenly, he looked up, directly into her discerning, blue eyes. "I swear it was real... I swear on my own soul, on yours, on Ingrid's, on Nick's.... It was real." 

"I know, Darlin'," Maggie said softly. "I see it in your eyes. I'm a judge... and a damned good one. I believe you, Derek Rayne." 

A weak half-smile flitted across the precept's face. "Since then it's been hard, Maggie... so hard... to get back. Everyone's tried to help, but I'm not sure I'll make it.... I'm not sure I'm strong enough or young enough this time... maybe what's inside me has been changed permanently. I've been... afraid," he quietly admitted. "Now this 'thing' that I can't control. When that old man came into the room and thought that I'd hurt you... it made me feel what I felt like as a kid... at school... a bloody freak. Because I 'saw' things they couldn't... the other boys... they called me **_schizzoide_**, crazy... **_Verrückte_**, kook... and **_fenomeno da baraccone_**, a circus freak. But, Maggie... what was worse... they were scared... of me!" 

In his eyes, Maggie saw the hurt of a little boy taunted by his classmates, before he began to erect his "protective walls." "Shhh, Darlin', it's OK. Everything's going to be fine now." She took the wicker basket from him and set it on the sand, then wrapped her arms round him, hugged him, and tried to draw the pain away. 

He returned her embrace, nestled his face into her neck, while she soothed him like a mother easing a child's whimper. "Sshh, it's all over now. You're here... you're well... you're getting stronger all the time. You'll get that 'bronco' saddle broke. It's us old geezers that have the stamina to win out. Everything will be OK.... Margaret Mae Hamilton of Briscoe County, Texas gives you her word on that... and Texicans don't go back on their word." 

Derek looked up at her and read the loving concern in her face. "Promise?" he whispered. 

"Cross my heart and hope to die." 

"Don't say that, Maggie," Derek protested. "Please, don't ever say that again." 

"OK... I promise... twice over." 

They remained locked together, sharing each other's warmth and courage, for several minutes. Maggie ached for her friend, for the horrors he had suffered... glad... even honored... that he had confided in her. She needed to know, to understand the darkness that still lived behind his eyes. She wanted to lighten his mood... to get her "happy boy" back again... the one that came out to play when he was with her... away from San Francisco... away from the Legacy. 

Maggie took his face between her hands, then pulled it down to kiss him gently on his forehead. "Darlin'...." She finally broke the silence. "Do you know why squirrels swim on their backs?" 

"No," he answered hesitantly, feeling slightly embarrassed at having displayed weakness before his friend. What did squirrels have to do with anything, he wondered. 

"To keep their nuts dry," she informed him with twinkle in her eye, but a totally straight face. 

"To keep?..." Derek suddenly grinned, then a blush came, then a series of suppressed chuckles. Finally howls of laughter burst forth. "Maggie, what would I do without you?" he asked between gasps. "Please don't ever change... and keep that pin handy to prick my sad, old bag of hot air when it needs it." 

%%%%%%%%%%%% 

**Part 11**

**_the Kitchen... the next morning_**

"Come on, Darlin', please, for Maggie!" her Texas drawl wheedled, "It's fun... really. I can show you how." She paused to brush the last crumbs of croissant from her lips. 

"It's not my sort of thing," Derek replied, barely glancing at the leaflet on windsurfing before tossing it aside... it seemed a frivolous activity at best. "You go... enjoy yourself... meet some bronzed Adonis." 

She smiled... men! "You're Adonis enough for me, Darlin'... and I want you to come," she pouted. "You need some damned fun in your life... just plain fun! That's why we're here." 

"I had another type of 'entertainment' in mind." He treated her to a lecherous leer as he set his empty coffee cup down. "Besides, I want to work on my 'problem'. I hate not being in control... it's dangerous." 

Clearing the table, Derek neatly stacked the breakfast dishes on the serving tray, then rose and set the tray aside on the counter. Housekeeping would be by to get them later. He picked up his test subject, a plastic measuring cup that he'd found in the cupboard and hefted it in his hand. It was perfect... not overly hard, nor heavy, but with sufficient weight and sturdiness for his needs. 

"You'd best move back, Darlin'," he warned as he placed the cup on the table. Returning to his seat, he focused on the object and, after a few seconds, was pleased to see it slowly slide across the glass surface. Suddenly, it shot forward with all the force of a rocket and slammed against the cabinets, nicking the paint. 

_**Scheisse!"**_ Derek cursed as the plastic cup bounced across the tile floor. 

"Sugar, we're gonna owe a bundle on damages... and they ain't never gonna want to see another Mr. Bernard," said Maggie, giving his hair a fond tousle. "At least you gave up with the pewter salt and pepper... that could've cost us a window or two... or maybe a concussion. 

"Come on... windsurfing will help... really.... You still need to work on your strength and flexibility... and that's a real sweet way to do it... and you'll have to concentrate like hell to stay on the damned board... that'll help you focus, which will help your PK.... Pleeease!" she implored, brows raised and eyes wide with expectation. When she got no response, Maggie persisted with the next plea. "Besides, I need my 'hubby's' protection... from all those bronzed Adonises that are gonna be chasin' this saggy, ol' fanny down the beach." 

Derek sighed... how could he resist an image like that? He was a good sailor... he had learned to handle small sail boats on Lake Lucerne... and big ones in the Bay.... This should be child's play. The thought of impressing Maggie with his easily achieved prowess appealed to his masculine ego. He imagined her speechless with wonder... no, he smiled inwardly, Maggie speechless... impossible! 

He picked up the cup and placed it on the counter. "OK," he surrendered. "Let's go... but next time it's my choice... deal?" 

"All depends what you've got in mind, Sweet Pea." Maggie hurried off to call the concierge. 

* * * 

Standing on the hot sand, Derek glanced down at the second swimsuit his security officer had procured for him. It depicted a yellow, cartoon figure baring his rear end with the motif "Eat my shorts". Nick was going to pay... big time. Potsherds would be too easy on him. Maybe sifting for bone fragments out in the desert somewhere with lots... and lots... of ants. The precept smiled at the thought. Behind him, he heard Maggie once again stifle a giggle. 

He turned to look into her red face, which was absolutely expressionless. "Yes, madam?" the precept asked coldly, as his left eyebrow arched in annoyance. "You have something to say about my attire?" 

"No... Darlin'... you're shorts are... are... very fetching," Maggie replied as tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. "Our boards are here. They said Jason would be along at ten... and here he is... right on time." 

An extremely well built young man drove up in a golf cart with a "tropical" paint job and a palm frond canopy. Two surfboards were strapped atop its roof. Derek eyed the driver suspiciously... he was a specimen that would make Adonis himself look like Woody Allen. 

Maggie watched as Jason effortlessly unloaded the boards, connected the rigging, and checked the sails. "There you are, folks." Glancing towards Derek, he smirked at the swimsuit. "I know you've surfed before, Mrs. Bernard. I recall admiring your form last time." 

"Please... call me, Maggie," she interrupted with the hint of a simper. 

"Maggie...." He offered a dazzling, heart-stopping smile. "What about you... Mr. Bernard?... You want a lesson?" 

"No, thank you," Derek responded, pulling himself to his full, lanky height. "I'll simply keep an eye on Mrs. Bernard's 'form'," he added with a frigid gaze down at the younger man. 

"Right." Looking the precept up and down, Jason gave as good as he got in tone and manner. "You folks stay inside the buoyed area and you'll be fine. The currents further out are tricky... only for experienced windsurfers. So long," he said hopping back into the buggy. "Take care... have fun. Just give a ring when you're done and we'll be down to collect the boards." 

"Please... call me Maggie," Derek mimicked darkly, as they watched the "jaunty jalopy" drive away. 

"What'd you say, Darlin'?" she asked. "Your Dutch is a bit thick... I didn't catch that?" 

"Nothing... Judge Hamilton... nothing at all." Derek wandered around the boards, surveying the contraptions. He touched the rigging with is toe. "Let's get these 'things' into the water," he said at last. 

"Hold on, Sweet Pea.... We need to try some basics first... on dry land." 

"It can't be that difficult," he protested as he watched others out beyond the bay. Holding to their bright, triangular sails, they seemed to skim across the waves with ease. 

"OK, Professor, if you're sure." Maggie knew her boy... his obstinate streak had emerged in full force... time to learn a few lessons the hard way. "Let's get them out beyond the surf line," she instructed, dragging her board into the warm, blue water. "Lie flat... face down... and paddle... like this." She gave the board a forward shove as she pushed off the sandy bottom with her feet and launched herself up onto the slick, fiberglass surface. Strong, sweeping strokes that pulled at the water maintained her momentum. 

Derek followed her lead. He wasn't up to full strength yet, but he managed to keep up. 

* * * 

Once they reached slightly deeper water, Maggie treated him to a congratulatory smile. "Now... keep the strap to the sail in your hand... like this." She demonstrated her grip. "That's it," she added as Derek followed her directions. "Try and stand up with a foot on either side of the mast." She slowly, cautiously rose first to her knees, then to her feet, and balanced on the gently bobbing board. 

Following suit, Derek carefully pushed himself to his hands and knees. He waited a moment as the board wallowed and bucked slightly. Once it settled, he attempted to stand, over-balanced, and splashed backwards into the water. He spluttered to the surface and grabbed for the board. "I think a wave caught me," he explained, searching Maggie's face for a hint of amusement. Feeble excuse, he thought... a wave? What wave? The bay's as calm as a pond. 

Nevertheless, he was gratified to see Maggie nod solicitously... poker face to the fore. "OK, Darlin', climb back on the board. Try again," she told him. 

Derek felt the board momentarily sink beneath him as he hauled himself back atop. Once more on his hands and knees, it seemed to wobble much more than Maggie's had.... Was this one of the judge's practical jokes? Had she had Jason rig the board to teach him a lesson for some unknown offence? Slowly, he once more began to stand... the wobbling worsened... turning into a back and forth swish. Suddenly... splash! 

"Dammit!" the precept swore under his breath, but with a smile plastered on his face. Again he dragged himself up onto the board, then tried to rise from a kneeling position. 

Maggie had drifted a few feet away. "Balance," she shouted. "Keep your weight centered... think of skiing or riding... the board is your horse. When you were a kid, did you ever stand on a nag's back when he was on the move? That's what this is like." 

Too late... his right foot slipped on the wet surface, shot out from beneath him, and he sat down... hard... his legs splayed out either side of the board. "The damned horse wasn't slick as ice," he retorted as he angrily swept his wet hair back. 

Maggie winced and gnawed at her bottom lip to ensure a straight face. "Ouch, you hit the saddle kinda hard... poor pony.... hope you didn't hurt anything vital!" 

At the moment, Derek wouldn't have admitted to major injury... but fortunately only his pride was damaged. 

"Come on, Sweet Pea, don't just sit there," Maggie goaded. "Keep hold of the strap," she instructed as he again began to rise. "Slowly... good... that's it. You're doing real good." Time for a little ego stroking, she reasoned. He was at least vertical. He glanced towards her, risked a quick grin, wobbled, but managed to stay on the board. 

"Now, pull the sail out of the water... like this." Maggie squatted slightly, shifted her weight to maintain balance, then firmly pulled back on the strap. Her bright red sail left the water... rising slowly... then snapping to attention in front of her. 

She glanced over at Derek, who was following her lead... too quickly following her lead. "Not so fast!" she shouted. "Slower or you'll...." 

The sail flew out the water and on top of him. Splash! 

After another twenty minutes of failed attempts, a bedraggled precept, trod water, his arm looped over the board. "I think the damned thing's possessed," he grumbled. "It's got to be a nasty little demon too. Some of your relation, perhaps?" 

Still with a straight face, Maggie nodded. "It's just a matter of getting your balance right, sweetie." He did look genuinely tired... his stamina still had a ways to go... so she took pity on him. "OK, let's take a break... paddle back to shore. We can always try again, later... after an exorcism." 

Derek groaned, "You're worse than the Spanish Inquisition. How can you call this fun! It serves no purpose but pain and humiliation." 

* * * 

Maggie walked beside the exhausted precept, as he headed slowly, deliberately back to the cottage. She slipped her arm around his waist, felt the smooth, firm flesh. He was filling out, she thought with relief... thank goodness... no longer a skeleton. 

"I need a shower," he muttered. "Got to get the salt water off." 

She smiled. "Goot idea, Darlin'," she mimicked, "but how about the tub?... There's plenty of room for two." 

Derek grinned, liking the picture that formed in his mind. "You will be gentle with me, won't you?" he asked with an elfin raise of his eyebrow. 

He was rewarded by a soggy beach towel thrown at his head. Laughing he reached for her hand and pulled her towards the cottage. 

+ 

**_Seaside Cottage..._**

Maggie started the bath water running, then rummaged in the cabinet to find a wide selection of bath essence. Sniffing each scented liquid, she made her selection, which she poured under the cascading water. As the gentle foam began to build, an exotic fragrance filled the air. 

Derek had stripped off his gaudy swim trunks, and, like every other man she had ever known, had left them disdainfully on the bathroom floor. He crossed over to stand behind her. His long fingers delicately slipped beneath the straps of her suit. Planting a tender kiss on each shoulder, he gently peeled down the damp fabric. 

She turned round, stepped out of her suit, and reached up to run her fingers through his wet hair, delighting in the small curls that formed and twined round her fingers. They sank into a slow, absorbing kiss, until the need for breath became overwhelming. 

Maggie swirled the bath water with her hand. "You get in first," she instructed, turning off the taps. 

Derek tentatively placed a foot in the warm water, then stepped in. He lowered himself into the foam and sighed. Reaching for her hand, he helped her to settle between his long legs. 

Leaning back against his chest, she felt his arms encircle her. She smelt his masculinity, above the fragrant clouds that perfumed the air. She closed her eyes, drawing the moment into her memory as she would a breath into her lungs. Her skin trembled under the warm caress of his lips that crept like lava down her neck to her shoulders. 

She half turned, searching his eyes, the windows of his soul. As her own soul became lost in their hazel depths, a whisper of "what if" flitted through her mind. "Darlin?" 

"Mmmm," he murmured... not wanting to stop what he was doing. 

She turned further to place a hand on either side of his face and kissed his lips. "Do you think we can ever leave the past behind?" 

"No," he said with a sad, kind smile. "We take it with us... wherever we go... even if it's wiped from our memory, it's etched upon our souls... but we can live for the moment... and right now... the moments... are heavenly." 

She felt his hands slide down her slick back. He gently pulled her round completely so that she lay on top of him. She began to glide sensuously up and down the length of his body, loving the look of pleasure that crossed his face. 

Taking hold of both his hands she stretched his arms back behind his head. She heard and felt his sharp intake of breath as her legs slipped apart and she drew him slowly into her. Her body ached to feel him... all of him deep inside her. The sense of "oneness" filled her universe. 

"Heavenly," she agreed. Never had there been anything or anyone more heavenly, and a small corner of her mind wept at the thought that this is all there ever would be. 

%%%%%%%%%%%%% 

**Part 12**

**_Seaside Cottage... the next morning_**

Derek rolled over in bed and swept aside the mosquito netting to watch Maggie dress. "You promised I could choose." His voice was petulant, like a small boy denied a promised treat. 

"Come on, Darlin'," she encouraged. "I let you off the hook with the windsurfing. You still owe me.... Besides, golf is on dry land... no dunkings... a nice walk in the country. You like a good game of pool, don't you? Just think of this as 'cow pasture pool'." 

"Hmmm... can't we do the walk without hitting the damned ball? Or the billiards without the cow pasture... I never was very fond of what goes with cow pastures. Birdwatching is more exciting than golf." This time he wasn't going to give in easily. Maggie was going to have to fight for this outing. "I tried it once," he continued, "with William in Spain. He said that a proper gentleman should know five things... a good brandy, a goot cigar, billiards, golf, and... well... I've already demonstrated number five." 

"Yes indeedy, you have, Sugar... judging from that, you are a gentleman par excellence." Maggie walked over to give Derek a deep, full kiss on the lips. "Come on." 

The precept responded in kind, but was not ready to yield. "Golf struck me as a totally meaningless pastime," he continued, "a step below your windsurfing. You hit a ball with a series of sticks, until you get it in that little hole, then you pull it out and start again. 

"There's not even the competitive thing... you play against some mythical score card... utterly pointless." 

"Well, you can play against me, sweet thing. I've played a round or two in my time." 

Derek smiled with a wickedly crooked half-smile, as if an amusing image had flitted through his mind. "I'm sure you have," he said. He hesitated a moment, then finally conceded, "OK... but if I don't like it, we go snorkeling... my choice." 

"Darlin', don't worry. The fish ain't goin' nowhere. They'll still be there later today... or tomorrow. 'Sides the course has a trio of holes called the 'Devil's Triangle'. How could a Legacy precept even dream of passing that up?" 

Maggie paused. Derek was yanking her chain... milking it for all he could... making her jump through his hoops. Fine, she thought... let him have his fun, but one way or another, she'd get that fanny of his out in the fresh air, doing what ordinary people do. "How about I sweeten the pot with a little wager?" she coaxed. "You win, and we work on that 'number five' all you want... and, since you're out of practice and still on the mend, I'll even give you three strokes a side. How's that?" 

"Five a side?" Derek countered. 

"OK... deal," said the judge as she slipped her cap on and pulled her unruly mass of curls out through the hole in the back. 

Derek slid from the bed, taking the sheet with him as a toga. "I refuse to wear those hideous golf trousers... yellow and red tartan... or whatever... Gott knows what people will think of my taste in clothing, but I will not condescend to a custom that demands clown pants," he muttered as he opened the closet door. Sorting through the rack of clothing, he was relieved to find that Nick's choice of casual clothes did not all include cartoon characters or gaudy Hawaiian shirts. He slipped on a plain Lacoste shirt and khaki slacks, together with soft, leather moccasins, and felt much more himself. 

Maggie smiled at the precept's vanity. "You'll do fine," she reassured him. "It's really only the duffers or the pros that want to attract the TV cameras that like those god-awful pants anyway... Come on... breakfast first... I've already ordered... then we'll go meet Jason." 

"Jason!" Derek responded tersely. "Why are we meeting Jason?... He's not playing with us!" 

"Darlin', he's gonna caddy for us. He's bringing the clubs and shoes. You're not jealous, are you?" 

"Ha! of what?... those muscles?... I'll bet he's on steroids." 

Maggie was secretly pleased that she had inspired the little green-eyed monster. Derek was definitely on the mend in all departments. 

* * * 

An hour later, they approached the emerald grass of the first tee. Bouncing along, Maggie was much more eager to get up and at 'em than the precept. He spotted Jason and his companion, another athletic young man with dark hair, a perfect tan, and awesome biceps, lounging on the bench, waiting for them. Derek had a sinking feeling he was about to undergo ritual humiliation. 

He glanced towards Maggie who squeezed his hand, "It'll be fine, Darlin'. Relax... go with the flow... enjoy yourself. That's why we're here, remember.... normal, human fun... not precept fun." 

"Hi," Jason greeted them in a friendly, relaxed manner. "This is Marco. He's gonna caddy for you, Mrs. B. You got me, Mr. Bernard." 

"Now, Darlin', didn't I tell y'all to call me Maggie," she instructed, batting her lashes and allowing the Texas drawl to ooze from her voice... sweet and gooey as molasses on a hot, summer day. 

Marco stepped forward to hand her a pair of pink and white, spiked shoes and a single pink, leather glove. 

"Maggie...," Jason corrected himself with a grin as he handed Derek his shoes. "Do you want to hit the driving range first?... Get used to the clubs and shoes?... or just go for it?" 

"Let's just go for it," the judge replied with bravado. 

"Great!... We've got a foursome ahead of us, but no one else is booked for an hour, so you can relax... take your time." He glanced pointedly at Derek. "No pressures." 

Derek nodded as he slipped out of his comfortable moccasins into the stiff, spiked oxfords. "You go first," he muttered to Maggie. "I'm dazzled by the sun radiating back from Jason's teeth." 

"Hush!" She nudged him, none too gently, with her elbow. "OK, me first," she said, placing the orange, dimpled ball on the tee. 

Marco offered Maggie the bag of clubs. She looked towards the distant, red flag, selected the "driver", and took a few practice swings to get a feel of the grip and the club's balance and weight. She then planted herself alongside the ball and focused her entire concentration upon the small sphere. 

The three men watched her wiggle the club, then wiggle her rear... nice "stance", they all thought... then wiggle the club again. Finally, for a moment, she was still, then she drew back the wood, and swung. 

Thwack! The noise of a sweetly hit ball echoed round them. "Good shot, Mrs. B....," Jason admired. "You hit that like a pro. You should be on the green in two." 

Derek had watched Maggie carefully, studied her posture, and remembered William's efforts. With a sinking stomach, he stepped up. Jason handed him his left-handed club... and offered him a reassuring smile. Derek nervously bent to sink the small, wooden tee into the ground, then placed the ball atop. The ball fell off. 

He glanced up to see that the two caddies had suddenly found the clouds very interesting and his stomach sank to the soles of his spiked shoes. "Please, please... let me at least hit it," he muttered to himself as he delicately balanced the ball on the wooden peg. Finally, he stood erect, took a deep breath, and addressed the ball. "Focus," he commanded himself. He swung the club back, down, and through the ball. 

"I hit it!" he exclaimed in excited pleasure, forgetting their audience. "Where did it go?" 

"Over that way, Sugar." Maggie smiled, pointing to the far left of the fairway. "But you did real good," she hastened to add, seeing his face fall with disappointment. "...not to have hit a ball in what... twenty years?" 

"Twenty-five," Derek declared proudly. 

"Awesome," Marco murmured as he and his companion exchanged grins. 

"Awesome shank," Jason whispered in return. 

The small group headed in the direction of the ball, which had traveled at an acute angle for a disappointingly short distance. Jason found it first, well into the deep rough. "This is pretty tough stuff," he commented as he knelt to part the thick Bermuda grass. "The runners get really matted. You could try chipping out or go for it with a two iron and see what happens." 

"What the hell," said Derek. "Let's go for it." With a wry smile, he accepted the offered club. He stared with loathing at the white ball, then swung with all his might. The two iron ploughed a deep furrow into the grass and snagged on the runners. Derek barely had the strength to follow through with the swing and free the club's head. He looked down in disgusted shock... the ball had scarcely moved a foot. 

"Try again, Sugar," Maggie urged. "Watch the ball... all the time... like in meditation... don't take your eyes off it." 

Derek nodded and swung again. The club made a jarring impact with the ground... the ball flew skyward and grass scattered in the breeze. 

"That's good, Darlin'. You sure clobbered that one!" 

"Did you get that snake?" Marco chuckled. 

All four shaded their eyes to watch, open-mouthed, the upward climb of Derek's ball. "Looks like St. Theodore's joined the space race!" Jason muttered. 

Derek, his hands still tingling from the shock, tossed the club to the younger man, took Maggie's hand, and headed down the fairway towards the landing site, still yards short of Maggie's first shot. 

"I'll bet he takes another three to get on the green," Marco whispered. 

Jason struggled to maintain a straight face. "Which green?" he asked as he slid the club into the golf bag and followed Derek and Maggie down the fairway. 

+ 

**_San Francisco Legacy House_**

Alex gazed through the brass orrery, the centerpiece of the library table. She watched as Franklin Cross, the Ruling Council's special liaison to the San Francisco House, removed his spectacles and began to polish them with a crisp, white handkerchief. To her consternation, he took his time, as always. Finally, he replaced them, then intently stared down upon her. 

"Are you telling me, Miss Moreau," the Scotsman demanded in his precise tone, now filled with incredulity, "that despite my express wish to speak with Dr. Rayne and Mr. Boyle that neither of them are available? I faxed my itinerary well over a week ago." 

Alex usually found a soft, Scottish burr appealing... there was something round and lilting about it, but not Franklin Cross' accent. To her it always carried the exactitude of someone driving home a point... a trial lawyer, a Presbyterian preacher, or an IRS auditor. "I'm sorry," she gently replied. Despite her feelings, she tried to be as conciliatory as possible... no need to totally alienate the Ruling Council's errand boy. "They're both away from the House," she explained, "and I haven't been able to reach either of them." 

"Really... this will not do... not do at all," he complained, giving his vest a downward tug. "I suppose I must concede to Dr. Rayne, in light of his health. The fact that he hasn't yet returned to duty excuses him... unless, of course, he's pursuing an investigation without clearance and authorization from London." His hawkish gaze locked once more upon Alex's face. It was difficult not to squirm under the ice blue stare. 

"But Mr. Boyle!" he continued, slowly, precisely. He sucked on his teeth in silent contemplation for a few moments, then suddenly shifted his ground. He turned to carefully examine the orrery, as though he had never before noticed the brass solar system that had always dominated the room. "Tell me," he asked, in an obviously feigned disinterest, "exactly how is Dr. Rayne? Is his physical condition improving as you.... as we had all," he hastily added, "hoped?" 

"He's doing fine," Alex replied cagily, wondering where this was leading. With a call less than an hour before Cross' arrival, Ingrid had warned that he had already visited the convent, and had tried to obtain information on her brother's medical condition. Thankfully, the regimen of the cloister, in the form of Mother Superior, had intervened. 

Cross nodded, slowly. "And... how shall I put this?... Mentally... is he seeking professional advice... to help him come to terms with what must have been a most confusing and traumatic situation. Is Dr. Corrigan counseling him?" 

"Not that I'm aware," Alex replied frostily. The truth is, she thought, it's probably better than Rachel wasn't counseling him. "But if she was," she continued, "that would be between her and Derek." What's he up to, she wondered. Why this concern over Derek... or was it really concern over Derek? Was he working for the Ruling Council, or for himself? He's nothing but a little weasel, she thought as he walked around to her side of the table... he even moves like a weasel.... He's dangerous like a weasel... sharp teeth with a clever, aggressive disposition. 

"Just so," he responded. Again the sage, judicious, noncommital nodding, "I believe that the Ruling Council's policy on the return to duty from long-term sick leave is quite clear.... Let me see... how does it go?... 'No Legacy member of any rank may be assumed fit to resume duty until a full physical and psychiatric evaluation has taken place, and a favourable report by an approved source has been submitted... in triplicate... to be ruled upon by the full Council. Then and only then shall the member be returned to full and regular duty and status.'" 

"I don't remember that ever being applied," Alex said in surprise. 

"Well, no," Cross agreed. "It has, in the past, been overlooked... handled more informally by some of our less disciplined administrators. However, my recommendations to the Ruling Council in my recent report on _**The Implementation of a Human Resource Strategy and Its Application in the Motivation of the Workforce**_ was very well received." He paused to catch his breath. "I'm sure you've read it, Miss Moreau. I regard you as a most promising administrator." The Scotsman beamed at her, certain that she would be flattered by his compliment. 

"But... I digress," he continued. "My recommendations were that this rule be reinstated with immediate affect, particularly in Dr. Rayne's case. We all want to make certain that he is up to the job, lest he overtax himself. I'll speak to Dr. Corrigan before she leaves for the day. However, if Dr. Rayne finds it difficult to discuss such personal matters with one of his team... we do have excellent facilities in England. Perhaps a change of scenery and the total absence of responsibility might be just the medicine he needs. 

"Now," he said, shifting gears again, "since I'm here, I'll complete an audit of your recent case histories... I know you have missed a firm hand at the tiller of late. The past month's will do," he instructed. Then, with a sigh, he pulled his watch from his vest pocket. Popping open the lid, he checked the time... Rachel would be leaving shortly. "I'll stay tonight... company for you.... I'm sure you hate to dine alone... and Mr. Fitzgerald's cuisine is quite above hotel fare. 

"If you'll excuse me, I must find Dr. Corrigan before she departs." 

Exhausted, Alex slumped in her chair as she watched him turn down the corridor in pursuit of poor Rachel. Finally, she pushed herself to her feet and hurried to the control room... phone Nick first... then the case histories to keep Mr. Scottish Weasel purring with self-satisfaction... and off Derek's scent. 


	3. FORTUNE'S WHEEL: Part III: 13 thru 17

**Part 13**

**_On the Golf Course..._**

Marco lost his bet. The precept took another four strokes to get on the vast expanse of exquisitely shorn grass... the green. Maggie's ball was three feet from the pin... Derek's about twenty-five. 

"You take your shot," Derek said quietly. "I'll watch you." 

"Putt, Darlin', it's called a putt," Maggie informed him. She considered missing the hole on purpose... but golf was a fickle game... even a three-footer was by no means a "gimme".... If she deliberately tried to miss, the ball would probably go in, unless she aimed it totally the wrong way, which, of course, Derek would immediately notice. She could always say she'd misread the break, but he was psychic. If she did her best, it would probably stay out. Hunkering down with Derek bending over her shoulder, she gauged the distance and tried to spot the line. "Do you see it, hon?" she asked. "Can you see the little line in the grass that goes from the ball to the cup?" 

Derek shook his head no. He had no idea what she was talking about. 

"Never mind," said Maggie. "Your 'Sight' will see it, if you let it." Finally, she rose, momentarily stood over the ball, then tapped it. The orange sphere followed a gently curving line, then, in the last few inches, increased the curve and dropped into the hole with a hollow tha-thunk-thunk. 

Derek placed his arm round her shoulder and affectionately kissed her cheek. "'Dead-eye' Hamiltion strikes again," he whispered. 

Jason and Marco watched the older man mimic his "wife's" actions. He squatted to study the putt, rose, took a deep breath and held it as he gently drew the putter back. A solid, little ping sent the ball running steadily toward the hole. At about five feet, it lagged and seemed as if it would stop short, but suddenly it began to pick up speed again. Finally, it circled the lip twice, then dropped. 

"I'll be damned!" Marco said aloud, then blushed in embarrassment. 

"I hope not," Derek said, smiling with self-satisfaction. Maggie gave him one of her "you-wily-old-fox-you're-up-to-something" looks, which he studiously ignored. 

"This game's not so bad, once you get the hang of it," he told her with an open-faced innocence. "A little finesse goes a long way." 

* * * 

"This is the Devil's Triangle," Jason explained, pointing out the three holes. "Number thirteen, a short par four over water... fourteen, a par five dogleg... and fifteen, a par three." 

Maggie took her place between the white markers. She chewed on her lip in concentration, then swung. 

"Great shot!" Marco exclaimed. "You'll beat the Devil.... It carried the water just fine... and you've put it right where it belongs... between the bunkers. You'll have a nice little lay-up shot, then you're home free." 

Jason pulled the "driver" from Derek's bag and handed it to the precept. He was thoroughly puzzled by Mr. Bernard's performance over the last few holes. Was he a "ringer", a scratch golfer looking for suckers? His swing wasn't bad, but his shots were wild.... They seemed to have a life of their own. He'd swear they were heading one way, but they'd curve round in flight. It was the damnedest thing he'd ever seen. Was this Bernard a trick shot artist, he wondered. 

"OK, Mr. Bernard," he said. "Let's nail this one... stone dead." 

Derek concentrated on the flag, a tiny wisp of red, flapping nearly four hundred yards distant. Imitating Marco's motion, he grasped some wisps of grass and tossed them into the breeze, which was blowing left to right. The precept gripped the club, concentrated, then blasted the ball. He watched it eagerly as it rocketed away. It carried all the way to the green, bounced like a tennis ball, and was lost to sight. 

Jason shook his head. "Wow! That was a hellava drive!... but I think maybe it bounced into the trap just behind the green." 

Derek basked in the praise and admiring glances of the two younger men.... OK... maybe he was helping the ball along a little, but all's fair in love and war... and golf. 

Maggie smiled... let the boy play. He's enjoying himself... his ego's being massaged, but poor Jason doesn't know what to make of it.... It'll teach the youngsters never to accept their elders at face value, she thought. 

* * * 

After Maggie's eight iron had landed her ball on the edge of the green, they went in search of Derek's, but found nothing in the sand trap. 

"Did it bury itself?" Jason called to Marco as he walked along the edge of the rough beyond. "Check up under the lip... maybe it did something weird." 

"No sign of it," Marco replied as he raked his footprints from the soft, white sand. "It couldn't have bounced past you," he reasoned. "Could it have bounced backwards into the water? Surely we'd have seen the splash." 

"So, what must I do, if we can't find it?" Derek asked, disappointed that he had lost control of his helpful nudge towards the flag. He'd probably pushed it all the way out into the jungle a hundred yards behind the green. 

"That's a one stroke penalty and you go back to the tee and hit another ball," Maggie explained, just as a curious Jason wandered over to the pin and looked down. There, nestled next to the thin, metal pole, lay a small, white ball. 

"Ahhh," he exhaled in disbelief. "I don't believe it, man. You got a hole-in-one... can't be done on a par four... freaky... one in a million shot." 

They gathered round the hole. "You put it in... your honor to pull it out," said the blond caddy. 

Derek stooped to pluck the ball from its hiding place. Marco took it from his hand. "It's a Titleist three.... It's yours," he confirmed. They turned to stare at Derek in wonder. "That's... shit!... it's impossible! Not at the Devil's Triangle!" 

"Darlin', you got yourself in this hole... you get yourself out," Maggie hissed through a fixed smile. 

+ 

**_Maggie's House, Pasadena_**

"Oooooowwwwhhhh!!!!" Marigold howled at each buzz of Nick's cell phone. "Oooooowwwhhhhh!!!" 

Nick heard the buzz, but where was the damned thing? He scanned Maggie's den without satisfaction. He'd have to straighten up the place before anyone else saw it. It was a mess. The phone was definitely in here... somewhere around the sofa. He looked under the cushions, searched the floor beneath, felt in the cracks.... Nothing. Then he leaned over the back. "Bbbzzzzz!" That was it... it was buried in Marigold's nest of cushions, dog blankets, stuffed animals, and chew toys. 

Searching the dog bed, he yelled over the next howl, "Shut up, you knocked up pack rat! Where's my phone?" 

"Ooooowwwwhhhhh!!!!" 

At last he found it. "Hi... Nick Boyle," he shouted as he flipped open the lid. "Shut up, dog!" He covered his other ear with his hand to block out the haunting moan. For some reason the dog seemed to detest the sound of his cell phone. What he couldn't figure out was why the strident ring of the hardwired monstrosity could be greeted with joy, while the gentle buzz of the tiny pocket model was the source of such distress. 

"Sorry... hello?" the former SEAL repeated. 

"Nick... it's me," said Alex. 

"Hi, me! How's it going? Any problems?" A pause told Nick that all was not well in San Francisco. 

"Just one big, ugly problem," Alex hissed. "Can you hear me OK? I can't talk very loud." 

"Go on." Nick sighed with resignation, even as all his instincts slipped into alert status. He wasn't going to like this. He felt it in his bones. 

"Cross is here," she responded. "He's been asking all sorts of questions about Derek. How he is physically. What's his psychological condition? Get this... he went to see Ingrid... and he asked the same things. That's hutzpa... he knows that he's not one of her favorite people, yet he went to beard the lioness in her own cloister. He's up to something, but I can't tell what. 

"I'm worried, Nick." 

"You and me both, honey," the ex-SEAL muttered. Slumping into the couch, he was joined by his canine companion, who laid her enormous, St. Bernard head in his lap. "Do you think he's asking on his own account, cause he still wants Derek's chair?" he asked, thoughtfully stroking a soft ear. "Or is the Ruling Council pulling his strings?" 

"I'm not sure," his friend replied hesitantly. "He was quoting some obscure Legacy ruling about Derek having to undergo physical and psychological evaluation before he can return to work." Alex paused as she remembered the rest of her conversation with Cross. "He wanted to know if Derek was seeing Rachel on a professional basis... and said that if he found it uncomfortable to discuss things with a member of his own team, then perhaps he should avail himself of Legacy facilities in England. He said that maybe it would do him good to get away for a bit. What's that about?" 

"Search me," Nick replied. He then paused. "Unless.... the bastards!... Alex!... I'll bet they want to get Derek back to England so they can stick him in Wells Ward, with all Reston's other 'team mates'. 

"Shit!" he angrily exclaimed, startling Marigold into a defensive growl. "What the hell's wrong with those guys?... What are they afraid of? Why would they turn on Derek when he's just barely up to par? Do they think he's gonna mount a coup... kick them out?" 

"No... you must be wrong," Alex protested in disbelief. She shuddered... she hadn't been to Wells Ward, but Rachel and Nick's descriptions filled her with horror. "The Legacy wouldn't do that... put someone with a sound mind into that place?" 

"How do we know?" Nick shot back. "We don't really know that much about the deep, inner workings of the Legacy.... Hell... those guys may have been 'A1' shape until they got shoved in there. God knows what's happened to 'em since... experiments... drugs they might test! All for the greater good, of course." His mouth and tone reeked of bitterness. 

"I can't believe they'd do that," Alex countered. "Derek has allies on the Ruling Council who'd protect him.... Besides, he has real power of his own... major financial leverage. Plus, we know about the questions... Ingrid and Barbara know." She wished she sounded more convincing. "We're the good guys, Nick. I have to believe that the Legacy couldn't contemplate anything like that. If I accepted that scenario, then what are we? What's Derek? We've done their bidding, so where would that leave us?" 

Pawns, Nick thought, but instead yielded a grudging, "Yeah... maybe." Was he being paranoid... or was everyone out to get them?... The Darkside on one hand and the Legacy on the other? Was this why Derek had always been so secretive... self-preservation? "Is Cross still there?" he asked. 

"Sure is.... He's staying over so we can dine together.... He doesn't want me to be lonely. I seem to be Administrator material." 

Nick could visualize Alex's grimace at the thought of an evening with Cross and his "Management-speak." "Oh, yessss," he teased, trying to lighten his friend's mood, and his own. "So... Mr. Franklin Cross has got the hots for his little Admin pet? Wonder if he's thinking of two-timing Patty Sloan. Are you planning on riding someone's coat tails up the ladder to the higher levels of bean counting Nirvana?" 

"Don't even joke about it," she snapped. 

"Here's a thought for you... maybe if you're sweet as cherry pie... willing to dot all his 'i's' and cross his 't's'... he'll open up a bit. Who knows, you might even find out who... or what's behind all this," Nick suggested. Then his tone switched to absolute sincerity. "Alex... I have to know what's happening. How else can I protect Derek, and his House. Whatever shit's going down... I'm damned sure we won't like it.... Play Mata Hari for me... OK?" 

"Please... say you're joking," Alex begged. 

"No Mata Hari? Not even for Derek?" He grinned, imagining Alex's panic stricken face. "Don't worry... just don't let the job get on top of you. I gotta know.... Bye." 

"Nick!" he heard her screech as he pushed the "end" button. 

@@@@@@@@@@@@@ 

**Part 14**

**_Seaside Cottage... the next evening_**

"Come on, Darlin', you been at that all day.... I want to wear my 'glad rags'. I didn't drag this hot, little, designer number half way round the globe to haul it back again... unused." Maggie smiled sensuously as she sauntered around to give Derek's shoulders a rub. "And I want you... in your tux... with all them little, pearly, stud things. You've got no idea what that does to me, Darlin'!" 

Derek looked up from his latest experiment... a dozen, diverse articles that he was trying to gently push and pull at will. With a mesmerizing gaze and an impish half-grin, his expression was pure seduction. "I'd rather be out of the tux," he said, "with you... wearing nothing but a smile." 

He had ulterior motives for wanting to remain in the cottage... the fine-tuning of his latest "talent" was progressing well, but he wanted more practice.... It was a slippery, little devil to control... and after yesterday's golf course experience, he wanted as few witnesses and distractions as possible. 

"I want to go dancin', Darlin'. I want to show you off. You're one hellava mover." Maggie continued her war of attrition. "And they're serving sushi. I know how much you like that.... So how about it?... a little sushi, a little saki, a little bossanova... and later a lotta 'number five'?" 

With a deep sigh and a smile, the precept surrendered. He knew when he was beaten, and this was Maggie's holiday as much as his... more, in fact... she had sacrificed her own plans for a photo safari later in the year and had risked the wrath of her fellow judges... all to be a good friend... to try to help him take another step toward recovery... and she was working her tail off trying to make it fun for him. He chuckled at his own unintended pun. 

+ 

**_Later..._**

Derek sat in a comfortable armchair reading the paper, catching up on the world's events. It was an enlightening moment for him... not one his ego enjoyed. "The world gets along fine without you, Rayne," he muttered to himself as he scanned the pages. "All the usual disasters, financial investigations, political mud slinging, film openings, births, marriages, and deaths... whether or not Derek Rayne is in his Legacy House, fighting his battles." This world got along fine without you for over a year, he reminded himself. 

For a moment, he concentrated on brushing imaginary specs from his black, tuxedo trousers. How had Maggie gotten her hands on his tux, he wondered. Alex... he had a conspirator within his own House. It had to have been Alex. That's how she'd gotten his passport as well. 

Derek gave his black, moire vest a tug and brushed another fleck from his trousers. He had been pleased to discover that they fit him reasonably well. Oh... they were still loose... more like the old "baggies" of the forties, but he was gaining weight, at last. If he didn't watch out, Nick would be putting him on a diet! 

"Ready, Darlin'?" 

Maggie's voice startled him. He laid the paper aside and turned towards the bedroom door. "You look... stunning," he whispered. It was true... she wore a hot pink gown of slinky, silken Alex jersey, which clung to her body. Jeweled combs had tamed her wild mane that now shone like an auburn halo about her head. Knowing that she wanted to show off her ensemble, Derek twirled his finger. "Turn round... let me see it all," he instructed. 

She beamed as she did a slow revolution. The strapless dress fit her like a glove. It emphasised her sleek waistline, presented to advantage her strong, tanned shoulders, and gave her a real cleavage. A revealing slit up the back displayed her long legs to perfection. 

Derek rose and took her hand. "I'm almost afraid to touch. How does it stay up?" he asked, nibbling the bare ridge of her shoulder. 

"Magic, Darlin'," she murmured... no reason to tell him about the strapless, backless "Merry Widow," whose boning was constraining her, flattening what the delicious treats of the past few days had added, pushing up and shaping what gravity sought to pull down... nor did he need to know about the toupee tape that was holding everything teasingly in place. 

"And you smell gorgeous," he added, "like cinnamon and vanilla." 

"I choose the perfume for the man," Maggie explained, "and they say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach... so I figure if I smell like baked goods, I'll get to be the dessert." 

Derek glanced at his watch. "I suppose we do have to go? I always liked my dessert first." 

Maggie chuckled. "Darlin', this transformation has taken the better part of two hours... so everyone... and I mean everyone... gets to admire the dessert before you dive in," she said in the most dominant tone a superior court judge could muster. 

+ 

**_Château de la Lune_**

"..._**'de la Lune'**_... appropriate name, don't you think?" Maggie whispered to Derek as the stiff-backed maître d' showed Mr. and Mrs. Bernard to their table. Derek remained silent, but she felt him give a soft, hidden chuckle. She knew that some private amusement about the name had flitted through his mind. 

Within moments, the maître d' had properly seated his guests, and with a gentile flourish had presented gilt-edged menus and a wine list. 

Derek smiled across the candle lit table at Maggie, "You made quite an impression, _**ma chérie**_. Every head turned... the men in admiration and lust, and the women in pure, green-eyed jealousy." 

"Oh, hush," she whispered over her menu. Her eyes sparkled as she surreptitiously gazed round the room. A Calypso band dressed in Hawaiian shirts played in front of a parquet dance floor. Exotic flowers adorned every table and hung in tresses from the ceiling... their perfume wafted round by overhead fans. 

Derek scanned the wine list. "Would you like a cocktail?... what about champagne? Only the best for the most beautiful woman on the island." 

"With this clientele?... Dutch bull hockey," Maggie said with a laugh as she glanced at the menu. "Champagne it is... or, how about saki, if we start with sushi? The yellow tail or the swordfish to follow... both fresh caught today. Or lobster?" 

He nodded seriously... deep in gastronomic consideration. "Swordfish, I think." 

"Sounds good to me," she seconded. 

Derek signaled the waiter that they were ready to order and received a discreet _**"un moment"**_ nod of the head. "He'll be over in a moment," Derek told his companion. After a pause, he continued, "I've been thinking... how would you like to fly home via San Francisco? You could stay Friday night and the Luna jet, which will be back by then, can take you home Saturday evening to Burbank. I'd like to play host and it's time I had some "fun" on my own turf... we could have most of Saturday to do what you like... and it would be much easier for you to get home from the Burbank airport than from LAX. What do you think?" 

Maggie hesitated. Only once before had he ever invited her to stay at Angel Island... when there had been a hotel screw up during a California Bar Association conference... and, of course, she had stayed overnight when she had visited to say "good-bye" to a man she thought was dying. 

"Please?" he asked again, earnestly. 

"Why not?" she replied as she saw the waiter coming their way. "I'm sure we'll think of something to do... and Burbank would be a hellava lot easier. I'll just cram all the harder on Sunday to make up for the lost time on Saturday." 

* * * 

The strains of a Calypso-flavored waltz floated over the hum of conversation and the discreet bustle of the dining room. Their order having been taken, Derek rose and stepped around to his companion's chair. "Mrs. Bernard, may I have the honor of this dance,_** s'il vous plaît?**_" he asked, gallantly taking her hand and kissing it. 

Maggie giggled. "_**Mais oui**_, Monsieur Bernard," she replied in a lush, husky tone, allowing the precept to assist her from her seat. "How _**très**_ European." 

Both felt eyes upon their backs, as they wove their way between tables to the deserted dance floor. Maggie heard an elderly voice whisper, "Striking young couple... if I were still on the right side of eighty, I'd give her a run for her money." "Young couple"... bless her heart, Maggie thought, and smiled at the thought of a cat fight over Derek... wouldn't be the first time. 

Derek took the judge into his arms as all thought of observing eyes was lost. They began to glide, floating with the music, swirling rhythmically in three-quarter time. Each absorbed in the other, they were lost in a world of their own, feeling every little nuance of movement and responding in kind. This was what dance was meant to be. When the music stopped, they gazed deeply into each other's eyes, in no hurry to relinquish the contact. 

* * * 

A few moments later, they returned to the table to find the sushi resting on square, white platters. The brightly colored parcels of fish and rice were presented with a small, black bowl of sauce and a pair of plain, wooden chopsticks. A polished, drift wood ice bucket sat between the plates. In the bucket, nestled in the ice, was a carafe made from a fat, bamboo segment, whose top was sliced at an angle. 

Using both hands according to Japanese etiquette, Derek poured the saki from the pitcher into Maggie's square, wooden cup. With a gracious smile, she took the carafe from his hands and poured into his saki box._**"Kampai,"**_ they toasted, then sipped the strong, rice wine. 

Maggie then clinched a sliver of orange fish wrapped in brilliant green seaweed between her chopsticks and presented the delicacy's proper face to the sauce. "Pass the salt, Darlin'," she asked. 

Derek glanced quickly round the room. Satisfied that everyone was minding their own business, he looked at the salt cellar, a thorny oyster shell with a tiny, mother-of-pearl spoon, and willed it toward Maggie. It slid smoothly across the white tablecloth to rest beside her plate. 

"Show off," she hissed. "Don't try it with the soy sauce... it won't accessorise with hot pink at all!" 

* * * 

The small orchestra was moving on to their faster tempo repertoire. Maggie sat tapping her foot, watching Derek finish his sushi. Truthfully she didn't care much for the stuff, so she concentrated on the champagne, which they had also ordered. It was good to see him really want to eat, and not protest too vehemently when she had offered him most of her own serving. 

"Good evening, Mrs. Bernard, Mr. Bernard...." 

They both turned to see Marco, resplendent in a white dinner jacket, which nicely set off his mahogany tan and black, curly hair. 

"Might I have this dance, Madam?" He looked appealingly at Maggie with brown eyes that reminded her very much of Marigold's. She glanced towards Derek, who raised an eyebrow and smirked. 

"With your permission, Sir?" he asked. 

Derek gave his consent with a slight nod... not that it would have mattered had he cried "No!" at the top of his lungs. 

Maggie smiled graciously, rose, and, after flashing Derek a "rescue-me-soon" glance, walked toward the dance floor. The precept sat back to enjoy the departing rear view... saggy?... no way. 

"Hello, Mr. Bernard." Jason had materialised from nowhere. "May I join you?" 

"Ahh... yes... of course," Derek agreed, wondering if Jason was the next in line on Maggie's dance card? 

"You dance very well," said the younger man, beaming an enchanting smile. "I thought you would... tall, but graceful men always seem to be good dancers." 

Was Jason pulling his leg... or giving a soap job for the benefit of the resort and a good tip? Derek knew he must have watched at least some of his windsurfing exploits. Graceful, ha! 

"You're from San Francisco, I understand," Jason continued, making what the precept figured was an attempt at small talk. "I've never been there, but I hear it's a lovely city... one I'd love to visit. I've very close friends who live in 'the Castro'. I guess I'd find it very big." 

"What?" Derek was slightly confused... ahh... the city... very big. "Well, yes... it is large... and... quite beautiful," he hesitantly replied... was his "Sight" still sending garbled signals? "Compared to Saint Theodore, everything's big." He caught sight of Rosa, in a revealing, black sheath, mingling with the guests at the far end of the room... so the staff was still on duty, making sure everyone was enjoying themselves. 

"Do you dive?" the younger man asked suddenly, pulling the precept from his distraction... something about Rosa reminded him of Alex... her hair, perhaps. 

"Yes, but not for sometime. I am certified." Derek relaxed... Jason was trolling for customers for his classes. "But I'm getting to old for that sort of thing. Snorkeling's my speed now." 

"Old? Not old," Jason corrected him, as he reached over to place his hand on Derek's arm. "Mature maybe, but I'll bet you could show me a thing or two. It's my day off tomorrow... I'm going diving on a Spanish wreck," he said with a charming smile. "How'd you like to come?" 

Derek spluttered on his champagne and casually moved his arm away. "I'm not sure... Maggie isn't a diver," he responded politely. 

"Yeah... I remember that from her last visit," Jason agreed, "but I was thinking about just the two of us. I'm sure she won't mind if we have a 'boys day out'." 

The music stopped and was followed by courteous applause. Derek thankfully caught sight of Maggie weaving her way back through the tables. Both men rose, and the precept assisted her to her seat. 

"Thank you, Darlin'," she murmured. "Marco's an energetic stepper, I'll give him that." 

"Mrs. Bernard... Maggie... you look ravishing." Jason flashed his toothpaste ad smile. "I was just telling Mr. Bernard about a dive I'm arranging for tomorrow... trying to persuade him to come along." 

"That sounds like a great idea," Maggie agreed, puzzled by the slight panic she saw in Derek's eyes. The band was striking up again... a tango this time. 

Derek jumped to his feet. "Shall we, my dear?" he asked, grasping his companion's elbow. "If you'll excuse us, Jason.... About the dive... I think not... but thank you for the invitation." 

"What's wrong?" Maggie asked in confusion, as Derek propelled her toward the dance floor. 

"Jason... I think he was trying to pick me up!" Derek seemed shocked. 

"Hmm," Maggie considered. "And you're from San Francisco, by way of Amsterdam?... or is it vice versa? Surely, it's not the first time." 

Derek's blank look amused the judge... he obviously hadn't caught up to her train of thought. "Never mind, Sugar," she said, patting his hand. "Jason has good taste, I'll say that for him." 

@@@@@@@@@@@@ 

**Part 15**

**_Château de la Lune_**

As the final notes of a rumba drifted away, Maggie searched Derek's deep-set eyes for the brownish hues of fatigue "How you holdin' up, Darlin'?" she asked. "It's getting late... you were practicing your 'hocus-pocus' all day... and we've been showin' these guys how to cut a rug for quite a while." 

The precept gave her hand a quick, reassuring squeeze. "I'm fine.... What else did you have in mind?" he replied with an suggestive raise of his eyebrow. "Number five on the Hit Parade?" 

"The casino?" she suggested as she led him from the dance floor. "Let's blow some mad money." 

"Gambling?" Derek was interested... his "Sight" against the house's advantage always offered a challenge. He wasn't cheating, exactly... just evening the odds. "Poker... or Blackjack?" he asked as they headed towards the Gaming Room. Those were the games that allowed him to use his "Sight" most effectively... to sense his opponent, to feel the cards. 

"Your choice... I wanted to come, you get to pick the game," said the judge as the doorman opened the double doors on the crowded room. 

Before them lay an old world realm that was the antithesis of the tropical, Busby Berkeley, stage setting they had just left. An immense, crystal chandelier hung suspended above the center of the room. The walls were cloaked in burgundy velvet drapes and mahogany paneling. Brass fixtures abounded, as did Persian carpeting. Bejewelled women and tuxedoed gentlemen clustered around the various gaming tables. Willowy hostesses in bias-cut, white satin gowns circled the tables bearing silver trays loaded with chips, while red-jacketed dealers and croupiers conducted the games. 

Derek fought a momentary wave of claustrophobia as dozens of thoughts, wishes, and dreams assailed his mind. He held tight to Maggie, for comfort and support, as he struggled to raise a mental barrier. 

She watched his expression closely... saw the effort he was making to get back on an even keel. "You OK, Darlin'?" she whispered anxiously... he seemed fine now, but he had lost color for a moment. "We can skip this. It's only a bit of fun. It'll keep till tomorrow." 

"No... I'm OK, now," he assured her, then kissed her forehead gently to emphasize his statement. He gazed around the room in search of an open space. 

"Roulette?" Maggie offered. 

"Craps," said Derek. "The table's less crowded." 

"Craps it is," she cheerily agreed. 

A grin lit his face, and for that moment Maggie had a glimpse of Derek as a boy... young, eager, puppyish. It was well worth the price of watching him shoot craps, she decided. 

They sauntered over to the table, where two voluptuous, young women, who were nearly wearing their dresses, stood encouraging the shooter to try his luck again. 

"Come on... six... come on, baby," their companion murmured. He held the dice towards the honey blonde, who blew a kiss delicately towards the ivory cubes, then exchanged a knowing glance with her six-foot-tall, platinum twin. 

Maggie watched the pantomime with interest... the young high roller was probably their meal ticket for that evening. 

"Mr. and Mrs. Bernard...." Her thoughts were interrupted. She looked across the table to see Jason standing close to a tall, distinguished looking man, with marble-sized diamonds for shirt studs. 

"I hope you get lucky," he said. 

"You too, Jason." Maggie smiled... it looked as though he already had hit the jackpot. He obviously shared her taste in men... tall, slim, with a hint of grey around the temples. But she suspected the diamond studs and links were of more interest to Jason than anything else. 

"Fickle isn't he?" Derek whispered as they watched the pair leave. 

"Never mind, Punkin... plenty more fish in the sea," she teased. 

"Snakes eyes, double ones," the stickman announced in a bored tone as he scooped away the dice and chips. 

The loser sighed dejectedly, and slumped away after a quick, regretful glance towards the two ladies, who were now studiously avoiding eye contact. 

The young man with the bamboo crook exchanged cynical glances with his compatriot, the dealer. Yet another "money bags" who had bet it all and had, of course, lost... and hadn't had the courtesy to tip the dealer even once. Classless moron, they both thought. 

Derek gestured to a hostess, who sashayed over to present her offerings. The precept quickly signed the note that lay on the silver tray. "Ten thousand to start," he murmured and received several stacks of chips and a very warm smile. 

He then stepped up to the railing, placed his chips on the green felt, and made eye contact with the red-jacketed dealer. 

"New player?" the man asked in the same monotone. 

The precept nodded and passed him a single blue chip for his first tip. "Thank you, sir," the man said with somewhat more interest... at last, someone who knew how to behave. He then announced, "Come out roll," as the stickman pushed the two white cubes towards Derek. 

Maggie gave Derek's arm a squeeze as he picked up the dice, then rolled them around in his large hand... testing their weight... getting their feel. They were wrong... he "saw," or more accurately, sensed that they were loaded. "Eight," he calmly announced, laying his bet. He shook the dice vigorously, then threw them hard so they bounced against the opposite end of the table. 

"Five and three... eight it is." The stickman pushed the dice and a large number of chips in the precept's direction. The two blondes became interested, and eyed Maggie appraisingly. 

Derek smiled as he again took up the two small cubes. "Hard eight," he said, placing a substantial number of chips in the proper place. The dice bounced against the board with a thump, thump. 

"Four and four!" said the stickman as he glanced over at the dealer and received a subtle nod in reply... string him along was the signal. 

"Wow!" leggy, blonde Number One gushed as she sidled up close to Derek's left side. "You're amazing!" she gushed. "How do you do it?" 

The precept gulped as he stared into the wide, knowing eyes. The room was suddenly very warm and very crowded. 

"I'm Bambi.... That's my friend, Candy!" she huskily announced. 

Blonde Number Two had in the meantime insinuated herself between Maggie and Derek, on his right side. "Shall I blow for you?" she asked disingenuously, ignoring Maggie's choking laugh. 

Perplexed, Derek's eyes grew wide at the thought that leaped into his brain. That was not an offer he expected to receive spoken at full volume in a crowded, public room. 

"On the dice," Candy responded archly. "But... if you had something else in mind?... Candy can be so sweet," she whispered seductively with her full, red lips pursed in a suggestive pout. 

Derek chewed speculatively on his inner cheek. "Hmmm...." He cleared his throat. "Unfortunately, I'm on a diet," he responded. 

"Oh, me too," Candy replied. "I'm always careful of what I eat! My tastes run to very expensive delicacies... like macadamia nuts covered in Dutch chocolate." 

Derek grinned... he was beginning to enjoy himself. Candy wasn't anybody's fool... she had pegged his accent and probably had an MBA from Harvard. He offered the dice first to her, then to Bambi, to blow on, but then he searched round to find Maggie's reassuring presence. 

"Eight," he murmured again, placing his bet. He vigorously shook the cubes, which sped from his hand like a pair of hot rods in a drag race. 

* * * 

Twenty minutes later Derek and his blonde glee club had attracted an audience, who had all added their bets to his. Large numbers of chips were now being paid out by the house. 

"Four and four," the stickman announced with another glance toward his supervisors. A slight shake of the head told him to end it. 

Squealing noisily, the buxom blonds bounced up and down in delight. Derek eyed their decolletage with interest, as did every other man around the table, while Maggie wondered what it was that so drew men to melon-sized knockers. Even a certain, self-controlled, San Francisco precept was not immune. Males of any other species, bulls, stallions, dogs, tom cats... none seemed to have a fascination for that particular department... only human males. She shook her head in absolute bewilderment... at least men didn't initiate courtship by sniffing tails. 

"Eight again?... A hard eight," Bambi said with a suggestive arch of two meticulously plucked eyebrows. 

"Hmmm...," the precept considered with a sly smile. "No, my dear... no... I think this time... a hard six." As he held the dice out for the ritual, anointing breath, Candy's lips left a scarlet imprint on his hand. 

"Come on six!" Bambi shouted, jiggling up and down in anticipation. 

Derek dragged his mind back to the game. This wasn't the time, nor the place, to lose control. He threw the cubes hard, watched them hit the side of the table, and then roll. 

"Three and three." With a wink and a quick flick of a finger, the stickman told his boss that the dice he had passed to the shooter should have come up snake eyes. Now, a very large stack of chips was pushed over. To the dealer's left, the table supervisor, the "boxman", had suddenly become interested, as had the tuxedo-clad pit boss, who looked down from his perch on the landing above. 

Derek stacked his chips, then casually gestured for the stickman to slide a stack of reds over as a tip to the dealer. The two men would later split the proceeds of the evening. "Thank you, sir," they both said, but behind the words they had a single thought... now lose you son-of-a-bitch. 

"Double sixes," said Derek as he again bounced the dice from the side. 

"Boxcars!" the stickman announced, totally disheartened... the "management" would soon be out to find out what had happened. The dice were his charge... no doubt he would get the blame for screwing up a switch, even if he hadn't. 

"Again?" Bambi asked. "Or would you like to get a drink... or something? We could go for a swim... _**au natural**_." 

Maggie had permitted the fun and games to go on long enough... time for the kittens to go play with someone else's mouse. She pulled herself up to her full height, which on these two "chippies" was about bust level. "No... he would not," she said firmly, stepping forward to restake her claim.... She fixed them with the judicial equivalent of the evil eye. 

The precept was secretly relieved that his cavalry had arrived, but Candy and Bambi had played a good "game". He handed each stack of blues... they had been worth it for the entertainment value alone. "Sorry, my dear," he said. "I've got to go... something's come up." Allowing his lips to gently brush her hair, he whispered in Candy's delicate ear, "Maybe some other time." Then he felt Maggie's stiletto heel press into his the arch of his foot. 

"Don't take any wooden nickels, girls," she said, putting a definite restraining order on their hoped for prospects. 

@@@@@@@@@@@ 

**Part 16**

**_the Casino..._**

As Maggie dragged Derek through the crowd, he stopped abruptly and pulled her back towards him. "They were fixed," he whispered. 

"What... the silicone mountains back yonder?" she drawled. "Damned right they were fixed... store bought right from 'Tits-R-Us'. I've known a cow or two that would envy those...." 

"No! The dice!" he interrupted with a lop-sided grin. "They were loaded... and I do mean the dice! The game was rigged. Let's try blackjack," he suddenly announced, dragging her off to the table on his left. Before she could dissuade him, he had taken a vacant seat at the padded leather railing and had placed his chips on the table. 

Standing behind his chair, Maggie leaned lightly on Derek's shoulder. Inwardly, she was bursting with joy. This was the Derek she knew... as full of devilry and love of the game as she herself could be. It really was too bad, she thought, that they each had their own paths to follow. They'd have made a good match, but they, themselves, and destiny had other ideas. At least they had shared times like these. She gave him a quick peck on the cheek for old time's sake. 

Derek twisted round with that quizzical raise of the eyebrow and the unruly curl drooping above it, which Maggie could confess to herself that she absolutely adored. Quickly she brushed the stray lock back into place. "For luck, Darlin'," she murmured. 

Feeling the cluster of warm bodies behind her, she glanced over her shoulder and realised the precept's fan club had accompanied him to the table. She groaned... it was going to be a crowded evening. 

* * * 

Twenty minutes later, Derek had, through the judicious use of his "Sight", increased his winnings, and those of his entourage, considerably. "Time to move on," he murmured, rising from the table. "Whom shall we clean out next?" 

"I guess those cards were marked?" Maggie hissed, but she need not have worried about being overheard. The crowd was babbling with happy enthusiasm as they clinked their newly acquired chips. 

Now gazing at the roulette table across the aisle, Derek nodded and said distractedly, "Marked... but I don't know how." 

"Sugar," she whispered again. "Cheating the cheaters won't resolve the situation... and surely they know we're doin' the same. They'll have to do something? I can't risk a scandal," she said pointedly, "not with my name on the short list for the next vacancy on the US Court of Appeals." 

"Don't worry, my dear," said Derek, entwining her arm around his. "Trust me." 

"Bull hockey!" 

Derek chuckled in reply. "Trust me." Arm in arm, they walked across the plush, Persian carpeting to the roulette table. Derek's groupies followed at a distance. The crowd had grown as diners had heard of the winning streak and had decided to come take a look and to get in on some of the action themselves. 

The precept guided Maggie to a spot at the corner of the roulette table. 

"House Rules," the croupier said in a monotone. "Table chips only." 

There was a gentle tap on Derek's shoulder. He turned to face a chip hostess in red satin. "Table chips?" she offered, presenting her large silver tray loaded with stacks of red, rectangular chips, each of which bore a different symbol. 

Derek selected the stack that bore the emblem of a sword, then replaced them with an equal number of his blue chips. 

"Thank you, sir," said the young woman, who then turned to mingle with the crowd that had followed the precept. A commotion rose as she ran out of chips and another silver tray was sent for. 

Derek ignored the hubbub and concentrated upon the game... like a batter gauging the wind before stepping up to the plate. The players had already laid their bets and the wheel was spinning. The little ball bounced and clattered frantically from one number to the next. 

"No more bets," the croupier called as the ball slowed. Finally, as it settled into a slot, he announced, "Black... ten." One of the players left the table, disgusted with his run of bad luck. 

Placing his stack of chips down beside Maggie's beaded bag, Derek held the chair for his companion to take the man's seat. He then took a position behind her and rested his hands on her bare shoulders. Looking down, he was treated to a fine expanse of freckled cleavage. "Quite a view from up here," he quipped. "The Silicone Mountains can't compare." 

"Shush!" she muttered as she placed a chip on "Lucky Thirteen." 

The croupier gave the wheel a strong spin. Smiling as he felt his companion's excitement surge through his fingertips, Derek glanced towards the red and black optical illusion to watch the ball settle. Behind him, the crowd waited in expectant silence. 

"Sixteen red! I win!" cried a happy voice. The accent was very New York... very Brooklyn. "It's my son's birthday... the sixteenth," a plump lady with startling blue hair explained to the table. Despite fingers dripping in diamonds, she smiled and bobbed with absolute delight at her win. 

Derek nodded. "Lucky for you both," he commented. 

She picked up the chips, then placed most of her winnings, a considerable stack, on twenty-four. "My daughter's birthday," she confided to one and all. "Rhoda's such a lucky girl, she married a podiatrist. I have three grandchildren... my Issac would have been so proud... I'll play their birthdays next," she rattled on nervously. 

Derek eyed her voluminous handbag with trepidation.... Was it soon to disgorge photographs of Rhoda, the podiatrist, and the grandchildren? Still, he smiled his encouragement. "Well... it's as good a system as any." 

Maggie was determined to stick with thirteen... she also placed a chip on the 13 - 24 column. Once again all eyes focused upon the wheel and the bouncing, ivory ball. 

Derek studied the spinning device intently. He felt rather than saw something subtly influence the fall of the ball, which stopped short of twenty-four by one number. He watched the croupier rake the table clear of chips... no winners... then exchanged a sympathetic smile with the New York matron. "The wheel's rigged too," he whispered to Maggie. 

"You sure?" she asked. "Why are they doing this... the odds always favour the house. I don't get it... they've got a golden goose.... Why risk coddling its eggs?" 

"It would appear that they don't like paying out at all.... Whoever heard of House Rules with roulette, and they've swung the odds way in their favor with the wheel's design," he replied, noting a slot with a gilded "ST", upon which no one could bet. If the ball landed there, it was House takes all. "Perhaps they figure the clientele is rich enough to afford losing and won't make a fuss.... What's a few thousand lost in the name of fun when there's millions more where that came from?" Suddenly a sly smile lightened his face. "Well, we'll see about that." 

"Darlin', what are you gonna do?" Maggie looked up to see the twinkle in his hazel eyes and worried that she was now dealing with a headstrong Legacy precept determined to right all wrongs. Her tummy grumbled a warning. 

Derek leaned over to the Brooklyn grandmother. "Why don't you try twenty-four again?" he urged. "All of it.... I'm psychic... and I have a feeling this time." 

"Really?" She hesitated. "Joseph... that's my son... he's a cantor... wonderful voice... and a whiz with the market... I promised him I wouldn't exceed my limit." She glanced down at the small stack of chips, then looked at Derek's confident face, and felt reassured. 

"The guy's on a roll, lady," a harsh voice from the pack encouraged. "You go with him." 

"Twenty-four it is," she said firmly as she deposited her remaining chips on the board. "My name's Gloria, by the way.... Gloria Templeman." 

"Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Templeman," Derek responded with all of his European charm. "May I introduce Margaret Bernard... and I'm Derek Ray...." The sentence was cut off with a grunt as he received a thump in the ribs. 

"This charmin' fella's my hubby," said Maggie. "Derek Ray Bernard." 

"Hmmm," the precept cleared his throat. "Yes... Derek 'Ray' Bernard," he said, placing a disdainful emphasis upon the "Ray." "Do you mind if we play twenty-four as well, Mrs. Templeman?" he asked, treating her to one of his most appealing expressions. He nudged Maggie, who was about to put another chip on thirteen. "Twenty-four, Darlin'," the precept instructed, mimicking her Texas accent. 

"Go right ahead... and it's Gloria," she said emphatically. "He has the cutest, mixed-up accent, doesn't he?" she said to Maggie in a confidential tone for the entire table to hear. 

A slight pink tinged the precept's cheeks as he seemed to ignore the comment. "All of them," he stated, sliding their chips into place. As house rules permitted, the perimeter crowd, his "fan club," all made their contributions. Derek smiled inscrutably to see a mountain of chips grow on twenty-four. 

"Darlin', you sure about this?" Maggie asked. "We haven't got Nick's muscle for back-up, y'know. It's just you and me, and Gloria, here." She glanced over her shoulder. "This bunch'll head for the hills at the first sign of trouble, and we ain't on US territory... or Dutch, for that matter... so no cavalry to the rescue." 

"What are they going to do?" Derek reasoned. "Accuse us of cheating, because they knew we should have lost? They won't want to make a fuss.... Besides, I have a feeling that Gloria's purse should be classed as a 'deadly weapon'." 

"Hmm...," Maggie murmured, far from convinced. 

The precept's eyebrow rose once more, even as his shoulders straightened in determination and his lips curled with self-satisfaction. _**"Trust me,"**_ he repeated. 

The wheel spun... the ball bounced, more frantically than usual this time. The crowd behind Derek buzzed with excitement. The ball hit twenty-four at full speed and should have flown out, but it didn't. Instead, it stuck like glue until the wheel came to rest. 

The croupier's eyes grew wide and in nervousness he gave his red jacket a tug. He had not even had the chance to close the betting. "Twenty-ffffour," he stammered, wondering what the hell had gone wrong. A cheer went up, and more chips were dispensed. The guys in the office would have been watching on closed circuit and would be out in an instant. 

_**"Oy!"**_ Gloria clapped her bejewelled hands in forgetful glee. "Gott vants that I should _**plotz**_," she said in a much thickened accent, then suddenly remembered where she was. "Oh, dear!... I'll be able to pay for my whole vacation without touching one penny of my trust fund." She beamed and bounced as a huge pile of chips was pushed in her direction. 

Maggie, too, collected her winnings. "I'll bet they can't believe it either," she muttered as she noticed two "suits" heading in their direction with sham nonchalance. 

"Show time, my dear," Derek whispered into his companion's ear. The lilt in his voice betrayed pure, enthusiastic pleasure. 

@@@@@@@@@@@@ 

**Part 17**

**_At the Roulette Wheel..._**

Maggie anxiously eyed the two approaching men, both in navy blazers with embroidered crests on the breast pockets.... They had to be casino security... and strong-arm boys. "What do we do now?" she whispered. 

"We continue playing," Derek replied without looking at them or her. His Dutch lilt tingled with excitement merely at the thought of the contest. 

Gloria appraised her considerable stack of chips and in nervousness primped her stiff, blue hair. "Should I put it all on my grandson's birthday, the fifth.... Do you think?" she turned expectantly the precept. 

"Not all of it," Derek cautioned. "If I were you, I'd only risk a few chips for the rest of the evening. Lady Luck visits us for moments at a time, but she rarely stays for long. But," he added with a smile, "I think five would be an excellent choice.... Margaret... on five... if you please?" 

The "suits" had stationed themselves behind the croupier and were watching every move made at the table. Their focus was primarily on Derek and Maggie, but the casino employee was also obviously nervous. He released the ball in a bad toss and it bounded out. "Pardon," he said as he stopped the wheel and retrieved the orb which had rolled to the center of the table. 

"They look like Laurel and Hardy... Stan and Ollie." Derek grinned. "I hear their music playing now... dum-de-dum... de-dum-de-dum...." 

"They look more like the Terminator and Rambo to me... thank you very much," Maggie muttered. "And they're packin'... look at the bulges under the jackets." 

Derek smiled and shrugged in response. Large numbers of chips were deposited on five... straight up... or on the five block for the more timid of the group. An excited murmur rose from the crowd behind the players. 

"I'll get us drinks," Derek suddenly volunteered. "Champagne? Gloria what can I get for you? I feel I owe you... or at least Rhoda for our little windfall." He looked around for a waiter, but none seemed to be immediately available. 

"I'll have a Manhattan," the elderly lady informed him. "I've really passed my limit, but what the hell!" 

"What the hell, indeed," Derek agreed with a chuckle. "I'll be back in a moment, ladies. Guard the pot, your honor," he told Maggie. 

"Watching him stride away, Gloria squeezed the judge's arm. "That's a very nice gentleman you have," she commented. "...and he looks like he was born to wear a tuxedo... or nothing at all," she added in a whisper filled with undisguised lust. 

Maggie laughed at the thoughts she read in the mind of the cantor's elderly mother. What would the rabbi say, she wondered. "He's nice all right," she agreed with a chuckle, "...and more." 

Watching the lightness of his step and his sly grin, she realized that Derek was enjoying this... blast him! As Gloria had said, "What the hell," she was enjoying it too... Court of Appeals, or not. If you can't right a wrong on the personal level every now and again, what's the sense in being a judge? 

* * * 

A couple of minutes later, the croupier called, "Again... make your bets... _**faites vos jeux.**_" 

"Where are the drinks?" Maggie asked as Derek pushed his way to her side. 

"The waiter's bringing them," he told the ladies. "Plus a few _**noshes**_," he added, then grinned to see Gloria smile in surprise at his use of Yiddish. "I told him to deliver them to that table." He gestured with his head to an empty table on the mezzanine that overlooked the gaming room. 

"You can't be hungry!" Maggie exclaimed in shock, suspicious that his response was a broadening of the grin and an eyebrow that climbed ever higher. 

Derek saw his waiter approaching with the loaded tray balanced on his shoulder. As the precept had anticipated, he took the least congested route to the mezzanine... behind the croupier, and behind Laurel and Hardy. When the man was directly behind him, the "Ollie" of the pair appeared to step backwards, as if he'd been pushed... a sudden, puzzled look crossed his round face. 

The puzzled look was soon replaced by shock as the tray full of drinks sloshed over him and Stanley. They both slipped and landed hard in prat falls that the Keystone Cops would have admired. A shower of nuts and crackers followed. Stan appeared to have donned a toupee, which on second inspection revealed itself to be caviar that dripped with agonizing slowness down his face. The _**"pièce de résistance"**_ however, was the whole salmon, which now lay glassy-eyed in Ollie's lap. 

Glaring at his companion, Stan struggled to his feet and slipped again to be caught by the posse of waiters which had swooped in on the disaster. Ollie shoved the salmon from his lap, grasped the edge of the table, and hoisted himself to his feet. "Jesus Christ! Benjy! That was weird!" he exclaimed as he stalked off after his crony. Laughter rang round the room to accompany their departure. The gamblers and Derek's fan club had been happily making money hand over fist... they had not expected a floor show to boot. 

Barely containing his amusement, Derek hissed, "That's another fine mess," and mimicked Oliver Hardy's waggle of an imaginary tie. 

Maggie smiled... the classic comedians, Harold Lloyd, Chaplin, Buster Keaton, and Laurel and Hardy, had been her contributions to the education of a certain precept.... He had been an apt student, though one would usually never guess. 

* * * 

The disaster having been cleared, the hapless croupier had changed his jacket and stepped back to the table. _**"Faites vos jeux,"**_ he called one last time, and, with a silent prayer, spun the wheel. For more than a minute, the ball rattled and bounced, then as it slowed the croupier announced, "No more bets," before the ball finally settled in number five, as everyone knew it would. 

There was an instant reaction from the crowd... hoots and yells of delight as each person calculated his winnings. "Man! You got the luck of the Devil," one voice announced excitedly. 

"Holy Shit!" another murmured with pleasure as he counted his chips. 

Derek considered both comments, and smiled inwardly, unsure that he wanted to be classed in either category. He wondered what their expletives would be if they only knew the truth. 

"So, Gloria? What about your next grandchild?" he asked, noting the approach of a man, immaculately attired in a white dinner jacket, sporting a red rose in the lapel, and a diamond ring the size of a bowling ball on his chubby finger. His black hair was heavily greased and a pencil thin moustache accented bulldog jowls that seemed at odds with his youth. 

"Look! It's Don Corleone, Jr.," Maggie whispered jokingly to Derek, as the Marlon Brando look-alike stepped up to the table's corner beside the croupier. They clearly saw him give his employee a discreet nod, inviting him to continue. "He's smelled something fishy!" Maggie said sarcastically. 

"It's the Codfather," Derek punned. 

Maggie looked at the precept in surprise. She had never expected him to catch the meaning of Don Corleone, Jr.... Had he actually seen _**the Godfather**_, she wondered. In return, she chortled, "Another fin mess! Hope we don't find a horse's head in our bed... might be a little crowded for what I've got in mind for later." She leaned into Derek's side as she suddenly felt his hand where he would normally never place it in public, at least she hoped it was Derek's hand... in this crowd, who could tell? 

"JJ's birthday's the thirtieth," Gloria announced, watching Derek for guidance. In her eyes, the precept could now do no wrong. 

"I think we'll go for broke... or break the bank. All of them on thirty, Mrs. Bernard." Derek's voice expressed absolute confidence. 

Maggie sensed a change in her companion. "What're you going to do?" she asked, watching every member of the pack follow Derek's lead and bet thirty. His silent response was an angelic upturn to his lips. Her tummy grumbled another warning at the bright green twinkle in his enigmatic eyes. 

* * * 

The wheel began its mesmeric whirl... alternating red and black spokes became the optical illusion of red and black concentric circles. The croupier released the small, white ball in the opposite direction, expecting to hear the normal rattling as it bounced and clattered round. Instead, it plopped into the no-man's land of the "ST" slot and sat there. Despite the considerable centrifugal force, the damned thing did not move. 

The croupier looked in panic towards his boss, who was staring open mouthed at the wheel. This was the last time he trusted "Uncle Mario" to provide the merchandise. The wheel came to a halt with the ball firmly lodged in the "house takes all" slot. 

"What the hell?" "Cheat!" "Fix!" The crowd around the table let their feelings be known, in no uncertain terms. 

"That's not right!" Gloria was adamant. "It's fixed. Where's the manager?" she demanded. An irate Gloria Templeman was, indeed, a fearsome sight. Her large handbag swung in the direction of the croupier, who ducked and escaped by fractions of an inch. 

"I'm the manager... Oscar J. Simpson." The man tried to maintain a convincing tone, which was not an easy feat when faced with a minor riot by his extremely wealthy and influential clientele. "I assure you everything is entirely above board," he insisted. He saw dozens of angry faces, all shouting at once, and one mad, old lady was swinging a handbag with the finesse of _**Wrestlemania.**_

"Oh, God! Not another O. J. Simpson!" a female voice cried incredulously. 

Derek and Maggie had long since stepped aside to allow the melee to run its course. 

"OK... let's check this wheel." A small, rotund man pressed forward at the head of a crowd that was not going to accept assurances from anyone... no matter what they called themselves. Together, several of the elegantly clad gamblers, male and female, upended the table. 

"Look here! Cables!... The damned thing's rigged!" shouted a young woman in a beaded gown. 

"Where's O.J.?" the round, little man bellowed. "What're you going to do about this? We've been cheated!" His face and bald head had grown so red that Derek feared that apoplexy was setting in. 

The crowd was now furious and edging toward rage. They were all wealthy people... one didn't get rich, nor stay rich, by being cheated! 

Oscar looked round at the sea of hostile faces.... Should he make a break for it... barricade himself in the office till things cooled down? 

Suddenly an accented voice was heard above the crowd. Derek's tone was quiet and calm, but effectively carried over the hullabaloo. The commotion ceased and all eyes turned toward the precept. Maggie marveled at the force his personality could exert... only the tone of his voice and his absolute confidence in the sense of his own presence had won the day. He should have been a trial lawyer, she thought, or a politician. "Perhaps," he said, "if you'll all agree... Mrs. Bernard and I could speak with Mr. Simpson privately, in his office, to see if we can reach some sort of an accommodation." 

Gloria nodded vigorously. "Good idea! You two lost the most... you oughta get first crack at da _**schmuck**_! Everybody agree?" Her tone indicated she did not expect opposition. 

Derek grinned... the veneer of the sweet, little grandmother slipped occasionally... and when it did, he was glad Gloria Templeman was on his side. 


	4. FORTUNE'S WHEEL: Part IV: 18 thru 22

**Part 18**

**_O.J.'s Office_**

Maggie and Derek were escorted into Oscar Simpson's office. The ruby red carpet felt thick underfoot. A solid mahogany desk squatted in front of a large well-stocked bookcase, the center of which was occupied by an even better stocked wet bar. To the left, a leather sofa and chairs were grouped around a low coffee table. In a corner, stood a large, prominently lit, Lalique figurine... a nearly life-sized, crystal reproduction of Botticelli's _**Birth of Venus**_, complete with clamshell. To the other side, a partly opened window admitted a gentle, evening breeze that smelled of the tropics and ruffled the fine net curtains. 

Incongruously, amidst this "old world" elegance, one wall consisted of a bank of monitors, not unlike Angel Island's control room, that displayed every angle of the casino's gaming floor... and at present an angry crowd, milling about the tables. 

"You might want to send down a few complimentary drinks," Maggie suggested. "Calm the folks down a tad, but don't get 'em liquored up or they could turn real mean. Wouldn't want that pretty place all trashed, would we?" 

Oscar obviously decided this was good advice and spoke rapidly with someone in the outer office. He returned accompanied by Stan and Ollie, who stationed themselves on either side of the heavy, front door. 

Derek watched the poor man's Brando and sensed panic as he stationed himself between his "heavies". Meanwhile, Stan fiddled nervously with his tie, then began to pick remnants of caviar from his lapels. He spotted an errant fish scale on his partner and reached towards it. Ollie slapped Stan's hand down and received a glare for his troubles. 

Suddenly Oscar spoke in a voice that had an air of hysteria. "How'd you do it? Electronics? We can search you... if necessary, but you tell me how you did it... and maybe I'll let you walk out of here. If not... well... the boys'll take real good care of you!" 

He shuffled his shoulders and "shot" his cuffs, then shifted his weight from foot to foot as the "boys" exchanged nervous glances. They could manage a menacing look if necessary... but real violence! Here? 

Derek and Maggie paused, waiting for an invitation to sit. When one wasn't forthcoming they sat anyway. Relaxing into the sofa, Derek reached over to squeeze his companion's hand, reassuringly. Maggie smiled at the gesture. Surely he didn't really think this flimflam man would worry her. She'd had his sort before her in court many a time. All bluster and no substance. She knew the look of stone-cold killers, and none of these "gentlemen" had that look in the eyes. Derek, on the other hand, could when the occasion called. 

"Oh, hush up... for goodness sake," Maggie snapped impatiently. "We came here for a good time. We expected to lose money... fair and square... that's what you do even in honest joints, but you've been caught with your hand in the cookie jar... own up, pay up and shut up!" 

"I mean it," Oscar shot back, trying to summon up a sinister tone. "You cheated us. Tell me how you did it... Uncle Beppe'll want to know!" 

"Uncle Beppe?" Maggie laughed. "You can't mean Beppe Roselli? Damned right Uncle Beppe will want to know... about how incompetent you are. Imagine... cheating all these rich folk at the gaming tables, when what you're really supposed to be doing is laundering money for the cartels. Skimming are we?" 

Simpson strutted over to his desk, opened the center drawer, and dragged out a large handgun, which he waved it in their general direction. Stan yelped nervously and rushed over. 

"Boss... Boss... put that thing away. Remember the last time?" He and Ollie exchanged nervous looks. The larger man gazed skywards in mute appeal and quickly crossed himself. 

Oscar obviously remembered and paled visibly... shooting himself in the foot was not an experience he cared to repeat. He laid the gun on the desk with exaggerated care, then sat down in his office chair, which tippled backwards... almost too far. 

Derek decided enough was enough... assuming a mask of tough nonchalance and flattening his Dutch accent toward something that might resemble Gloria's Brooklynese, he said, "Now... Oscar... you tell me if I get any of this wrong... but judging from what my wife just said, I'm guessing Uncle Beppe didn't know what to do with a _**putz**_ like you... so he convinced the 'family' to dump you down here, figuring even you couldn't mess up a sweet deal like this." 

Maggie smiled slightly at the thought of Dr. Derek Rayne, Ph.D. in theology, using such a word as "putz," considering its Yiddish meaning. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. The errant curl was back down over his brow... and the real "stone-cold" look gleamed in his now hard, green eyes. No doubt about it... the man could deliver a performance worthy of Olivier when he wanted to. But how much of a performance was it? 

Glaring at Derek and Maggie, Oscar wondered how and where they got their information. Was the guy connected... one of the "old" family? He had a strange accent... maybe he was from Sicily, but he didn't look Italian. Maybe he was part of the Jewish mob... a protege of Meyer Lansky or Bugsy Siegel. He shivered under the gaze of those ice cold eyes. 

"But you got greedy," Derek continued smoothly. "Bad mistake. Lots of witnesses... worse mistake. I sincerely doubt that you or your associates want any bad publicity... particularly when laundering money for the Columbians.... Time for a little crisis management, perhaps? We'll go reassure everyone it's all been a terrible mistake and the person responsible has been canned... that it will never happen again... which it won't!" 

The precept had allowed his voice to become louder and more forceful. Maggie's sideways glance at his vernacular had not escaped him. He hoped he'd selected the correct slang... too late if not, so he plunged on. "You open that safe hidden behind your booze rack... and pay the folks what they're owed... in clean money. We don't want any white powder on our cash when we go back through customs, now do we?" 

Oscar stood angrily, but got no further as an invisible force pushed him backwards, slamming him hard against the bookcase. 

"What the hell?" Stan reached for the gun only to see it spin away, out through the open window. He and his "Boss" exchanged open-mouthed glances, then checked the desk again to make sure it hadn't been an illusion. The weapon was, indeed, gone. 

Derek decided to go the whole hog. The window rattled, books flew from the shelves, liquor decanters shattered, and the monitors all crackled with static and sparks. A miniature tempest raged within the office. 

"Now, now, Darlin'," Maggie drawled, patting Derek's arm. "Don't you get yourself all riled up. I'm sure these boys'll be reasonable. There's no need for unpleasantness." Wide-eyed with mock concern, she glanced towards Oscar. "Don't make him angry for heaven's sake.... The last time... it was soooo messy," she whispered theatrically. "Imagine... being turned inside out... literally! If it gets away from him, anything can happen." 

Oscar was staring in panic at the elegant monster that was relaxing on his couch. He knew his horror films... his Stephen King and Clive Barker. What was he dealing with here? "What the devil is he?" he asked. 

"Ssshh," Maggie hissed a warning. "He's got six-six-six tattooed on his tush.... What does that tell you!" 

In a final burst, the Lalique Venus explosively shattered into a million pieces. 

"No!" Oscar cried. "Not my Venus!" 

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the noise and mayhem ceased. The monitors went blank, the last book fell with a thud, and Derek's cold, green gaze flickered menacingly towards Oscar. 

"Ahh... toilet.. now!" the amateur mobster garbled as he scuttled stiff-legged toward a small door to the side of the bookcases. 

"I think he just ruined a nice suit," Maggie whispered in an aside to Derek. 

Ollie decided it was time to take charge. He nodded Stan towards the 'Boss', while he bravely approached the sofa. He stooped to pick up a now cracked, rosewood box from the floor, opened it, and offered Derek a cigar. 

Derek smiled, accepted the offer, then, having clipped off the end, puffed enthusiastically as it was lit. "Hellava good cigar," he murmured, appreciatively blowing a cloud of pungent smoke. "I should know!" 

The precept had noted that the man's movements were surprisingly delicate for someone of his size... an old mob soldier or mercenary, he thought... being rewarded with an easy job in paradise for long, loyal service... or a particularly nasty deed... but Derek sensed that those were days happily long gone. 

"Now, how about a drink... ahh... sir?" Ollie asked in a voice that was nervous and deferential. "I know we can sort this mess out... amicably. It's nothing Mr. Roselli needs to know about. What's your poison? I mean... what can I get you? Just take a minute... you kinda did in the 'Boss'' liquor supply." 

"Champagne for me," Maggie informed the retreating figure. 

"Brandy will do nicely," said Derek. "Napoleon... if you have it." 

Once they were alone, Maggie smiled. "Really Darlin'... you overplayed that hand a tad. Hope you had as much fun doin' it as I did watching it." She then noticed a slight trickle of blood from Derek's nose and pulled a tissue from her purse to blot it away. "Bend over for a minute," she instructed. "No more shenanigans tonight, OK?" 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

**Part 19**

**_Seaside Cottage... later_**

Derek had been in a fine humor. On an emotional high, adrenaline had still coursed through his veins. Mr. O.J. Simpson's coffers had been emptied to cover everyone's losses, and then some. His own funds, and Maggie's, had been considerably enhanced. Stan and Ollie had promised to inform Uncle Beppe of the situation. Feeling very self-satisfied, the precept was certain that life was back on track and that his new talent had been tamed... and had even proven to be of some use. 

Having shed most of his monkey suit and fixed himself a night cap, Derek had sprawled, fidgety, in the comfortable armchair to wait for Maggie, who was taking nearly as long to remove her enchanting costume as she had to concoct it. It was three a.m., which meant eleven in San Francisco. "It's not so late," he had reasoned. Alex should still be up. "I should check in... make sure everything's OK," he convinced himself. He then admitted a little ruefully that he wanted to tell her of his triumph in the casino. It had felt good to be back... to be strong and whole once more. It was a sensation that he had truly feared was gone forever. 

* * * 

Now pressing the disconnect button, Derek felt strangely flat. His conversation with Alex had not gone well.... She had assured him that everything was fine and had told him to enjoy the rest of his vacation, to take his time getting back.... Hell was taking some time off too. Life on Angel Island was downright boring, so she was working on old case files. However, while he had heard her words, he had felt something entirely different was being said in the spaces between those words. Had he imagined her assurances were hiding tears? 

He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, knowing that when he returned home, he must resolve the situation with her. He would have to discover whether "his Alex" felt the same as her "other-world" twin had. 

Maggie emerged from the bathroom. Bundled in a plush, terry robe, with a towel turbaning her hair, she immediately sensed a change in the atmosphere. "Anything wrong, Sweet Pea?" she asked, trying to understand how she'd left a man bubbling over with excitement to find that a pensive man had taken his place. 

"Nothing," he replied, more tersely than he'd intended. He saw her flinch and regretted his harsh tone. "Sorry... I just called home and talked to Alex." 

"And?..." Maggie quizzed. Was this the only explanation? Would she have to use her feminine wiles to plumb the source of his mood? "Was something wrong? Have ghosts invaded city hall? Is Satan squatting on the Golden Gate? Have vampires taken over Alcatraz?" she joked. 

A sad smile tweaked the corner of the precept's mouth. "She said everything was fine, but I think she was only telling me what she thought I needed to hear." He sighed again and turned his dark mood inward. 

Maggie was not going to let a week's good work be ruined by a phone call. "Come on, Darlin'... what's really going on here?... Talk to me... I'm a judge... I'm a good listener." 

With a drooping head, he sat in silence for a long time. Only his fingers moved, thumping the chair in contemplation. But Maggie knew her man... so she curled up on the floor at his feet, rested her crossed arms on his knees, and watched his face, searching his eyes for clues to unravel the mystery. 

Within moments, Derek began to talk. In a voice, strangely devoid of emotion, he told his friend of the "other Alex" and how she had expressed her real feelings for his twin soul. How he had felt her passion beneath the parting kiss, and had felt the sorrow of his "other-self" at the musings of what might have been, when he had said a gentle good-bye to the unconscious woman at his feet. 

"Afterwards... I awoke to a different Alex... my own," he explained in a husky voice. "My behavior towards her has been erratic and intolerable... awkward... cold... even angry. I don't know what to do... because I don't know if this Alex shares the other's feelings." 

There was a long silence, which Maggie finally broke. "And now, Darlin', you're going home... and you know you have to resolve the situation.... Did you invite me to Angel Island to be your shield? Or do you want to throw a monkey wrench into the gear box?... Show Alex that your interests lie elsewhere, so you won't have to deal with it?" 

"No," he protested. "I invited you because I want you to come... turn about's fair play. I want you to be my guest for a change." He paused, then suddenly asked, looking into her intelligent, blue eyes, "How?... How do I resolve the situation?" 

"Darlin'... Derek... what do you want from Alex? Do you love her? Do you see yourself marrying her... having kids?" Maggie's Texas drawl faded to nothing. 

"I care for her... very much," the precept proclaimed. "She's part of my family... my Legacy family. There's nothing I wouldn't risk for her. I'd die for her." 

"Oh... Sugar... you're thinking like a man. She doesn't want you to die for her... she wants you to live for her," Maggie explained, as kindly as she could. For an intelligent man and a wonderful lover, Derek was very naive about women. 

"I have my job, Maggie.... It's not like being a bank manager.... I can't work nine to five, then go home to a nice house, with a nice wife, three nice kids, and a dog sleeping on the hearth. Alex knows that.... It's her life too." He paused, trying to read his friend's eyes. "I don't want to hurt her... or be responsible for her unhappiness. 

"I feel like I'm damned if I do, and damned if I don't," he continued, miserably. "If I do say something to her... and she doesn't feel the same... I could lose her friendship... her respect.... It could damage the team. If I don't... and she stays with us because she hopes... for more... then I might be stopping her from living the life I'm sure she wants... which she certainly deserves." 

"And what about your feelings, Darlin'? Do you want the emotional involvement that this relationship will bring." 

Another unhappy sigh. "I can't risk it. I'm a precept. One of us... and frankly it would have to be her... would have to leave Angel Island... or leave the Legacy," he said firmly. "How could I send her out on a case and put her at risk?" he asked, then paused to gather his thoughts. "Maybe I'm already differentiating between her and the others. Do I endanger them, to protect her? I do tend to have Alex work at the House... doing research... but that's what she excels at... to send her out just to prove a point would be a foolish waste of resources, yet I know she wants more field experience. We've clashed about it. 

"It's such a mess," he admitted, running his hand through his hair, "and the worst of it is that it may all be in my own mind.... I don't know what to do... me... Derek Rayne, precept... who always knows... who is always so damned certain... or pretends to be." 

Maggie shook her head slowly. "Darlin', don't torture yourself. Maybe the best thing to do... is to do nothing." When there was no response, she continued, "Damn it all... Alex ain't exactly a wilting lily." She saw the hint of a memory flit across his face. "If she wants you bad enough, she'll let you know one of these days. Maybe she feels the same as you... she likes the idea... but fears that in practical terms it won't work... so, for the moment, half a loaf with a job and home she loves is better than risking it all. But, once she's made up her mind... either yes or no... then, Darlin', look out. She'll either hogtie you till you sort it out... or she'll find someone else and fly the coop." 

"You think?" Derek asked hopefully. "Wait and see?... Is that the best course?" His expression grew lighter... happier. 

"Sure is, Honey." Maggie watched as a weight seemed to lift from his shoulders. 

Were she and Alex closer than she had thought? Sisters under the skin? Both attracted to this enigma of a man... both wanting our careers and to have our moments with him when we can snatch them? 

Alex sees him every day... sees the noble, courageous soul, the manipulator, the warrior, the academic. She shares his dangers and his triumphs, but it's look, don't touch. I'm the old biddy that sees him once in a blue moon and finds that passionate, mischievous, fun loving spirit that makes the whole man.... but it's only because he comes to play in my world, or outside both our worlds. If I was in the Legacy, I'd be in Alex's shoes. A strange **_menage a trois_**, she thought. 

"Would you like another brandy... before bed?" she smiled wickedly, "to keep your strength up." 

"I'll show you who needs a brandy... you Texas hussy!" Derek grinned and lunged for her as she squealed in delight. 

+ 

**_Maggie's House, Pasadena... 2 days later_**

"That's it.... That's all of them, I think," said Hallie Mattox as she handed another small, wet, brown and white bundle to Nick, who tenderly dried it with a fluffy, white towel and laid it down with its nine siblings. Marigold let out an enormous, tired sigh and immediately sniffed the newcomer, then began to bathe it with her large, pink tongue. 

"I never realized getting born was so much work," said Nick, noting the tiny creature's exhaustion. 

"Well," Hallie replied, gently helping each puppy to each find a faucet for its first real meal. "I'm sure they're all thinking there's a lot more room out than in... but gee... it's cold out here." She then gathered up the damp, dirtied blankets and towels and spread out fresh bedding. "I'll be back... I'm just going to dump these in the washer," she said, "and get myself cleaned up. Want to order pizza, or something?" 

"Sounds good to me," Nick replied as he slumped into a chair to sleepily watch the new family. He had to laugh at himself, in an embarrassed sort of way. With all his medic training from the SEALs, he'd had to call Hallie, Maggie's law clerk, to deal with the puppy situation. One, even one human one, he thought he could have handled, but when the wet little bundles had started coming out in a steady stream, he'd panicked. He knew how much those dogs meant to Maggie and he was afraid he'd do something wrong... and though he knew the theory, he'd never actually seen anything born before. The Boyle household had never included pets. 

He sat for a moment to allow the remaining adrenalin to seep away. At last he took a deep breath and reached for his cell phone, which lay nearby on a stack of law books. "From one classy broad to another," he murmured. 

He confessed to himself that he liked Hallie Mattox... she was a trooper... softer... not as dominant as her boss, Judge Maggie, but every bit as competent. 

As he pushed the speed dial, he realized who it was that Hallie reminded him of... it was Alex... a slightly darker, a slightly toothier Alex... but with that same gentle concern and beauty, mingled with intellect and expertise. Finally, he heard the ring of the other phone and the answering voice of his friend. 

"Alex Moreau." 

"Hi, how's the spy game?" he teased. "You get anything from Cross... well... any information, I mean." 

"No, I didn't," she snapped, affronted. "The man has a one track mind, and, believe me, his true love is the Legacy Rule Book. He knows the damned thing back to front. I pity Patty Sloan... from one stiff-necked by-the-book man to another. Lord knows why, but I guess she likes the type!" 

"Is he still there?" Nick asked, the euphoria of the puppies' birth swiftly disappearing as he considered Cross. What the hell was the man up to? Errand boy, or something more sinister? 

"No, he left here last night. I'm afraid he's traced you and Derek to LA," Alex informed him. 

"Shit!" How long would it be before he put two and two together and came up with Maggie Hamilton? Please, God, not tonight, Nick thought, then quickly added, "Hey, y'know, it's not so bad. Derek called just before the canine cavalcade got underway. We've now got ten little Marigolds and Mariguys," he proudly announced. "Anyway, he and Maggie are coming home... to San Francisco. I'll book a flight for myself out of Burbank for in the morning, then I'll have time to get the chopper checked and fueled, and fly them home in style... easier than dealing with all that construction that's going on." 

"His timing's impeccable," Alex commented, worried by Nick's revelation. Maggie was coming home with Derek! No one ever comes home with Derek... well, rarely does anyone, she amended her thought. 

"Yeah," Nick agreed. "Guess it was his 'Sight'.... Honey, whatever Cross is up to, he's sure makin' a mess of it." Nick thought quickly... his precept had sounded good, confident... back up to speed. "Derek'll take care of Cross... no problem," he firmly assured her, seeking to allay her worries, and his own. "It's time we all headed home and got back to work." 

Suddenly something ice cold touched his arm... a frosty can of beer. He looked up to see Hallie smiling down at him. "Bye," he suddenly told Alex. "I'll see you tomorrow night.... I gotta go... duty... doggie duty calls." 

&&&&&&&&&&&&

**Part 20**

**_Flight 805... the next day_**

Settling back into her deep, plush seat, Maggie reached over to grasp Derek's hand. She closed her eyes as she felt the speed of the San Francisco bound jet increase. Her stomach twitched in anxiety when the immense 747 left Miami's runway and began its lumbering climb into a clear, blue sky. 

Derek smiled, brought his companion's hand to his lips, and bestowed a gentle kiss upon her white knuckles. "It's OK now," he said. "You can open your eyes.... We're on our way." 

As the plane finally leveled, the "fasten seatbelt" sign flicked out. Derek released his belt, reclined his seat back as far as it would go, and stretched out his long legs. He glanced around the upper-deck... First Class... only another eight rows of high, well-cushioned seats. The flight attendant had already rolled out his beverage cart, which the precept noted carried a not unacceptable champagne. "This is much better than tourist," the sybarite in his soul commented. "Much better," he purred like a contented tomcat. 

"Sure is, Darlin'," Maggie agreed. Happily adjusting her own seat, she accepted the champagne and passed a fluted glass to her friend. "Lucky Nick's meeting us at the airport... we can finish our vacation on a high note." 

They clinked glasses, then sipped the sparkling, golden liquid. Derek felt the bubbles burst in his mouth and savored the chill in his throat as he swallowed the icy drink. "That's goot," he murmured. 

Maggie took another sip, then set her glass aside and reached beneath her seat for her purse. "Want to see how my photos turned out, Sweat Pea?" she innocently asked as she pulled a bright blue envelope from her handbag. 

Derek nodded, surprised that she had the opportunity to use her camera.... He couldn't recall seeing her snap a single photograph. Her tone, however, betrayed a hint of cleverness that he knew well... it meant "watch out!"... booby trap ahead, with a certain precept bound to be the prized booby. As each glossy three by five was handed over, he began to see why he couldn't remember. 

"So, Darlin'," Maggie said with a chuckle, "here's you... asleep in the rear garden at the cottage... and here's you... asleep on the beach. This is a nice one... you're dozin' in the hammock." 

He watched each picture go by. "I didn't sleep through the whole holiday, did I?" 

"Noooo, Darlin'... we spent lots of time in the bedroom... but it sure wasn't all in sleep, and speaking of the bedroom... here's my favourite. You asleep on the bed." 

Derek let out a surprised yelp. "I'm naked... Maggie! Where did you get these developed?" he asked in panic. 

"On the island.... Don't worry, Sugar. They didn't bat an eye. Compared to what they must see, I'm sure these are mild. Though I suspect Jason would've probably raised... an eyebrow... at the very least!" 

"But...," Derek spluttered. 

"Sshh...." She placed her finger on his lips. "You can have the negative.... I'll just keep this to remind me of what I'm missing. You look so cute... like a little boy... well, not exactly little," she teased, returning the photographs to her purse. 

Derek tucked the negative into a compartment of his wallet. Once safely back at the House it was going straight into the fire, he decided. 

* * * 

Allowing an excellent cordon bleu lunch to digest, Derek and Maggie sat in silent companionship... no need to talk. Maggie leaned her head against the headrest and gazed steadfastly at her friend, her lover, whose thoughts seemed to be focused somewhere beyond the small window. Such a nice profile, she thought... long, straight nose, strong jaw and chin. That was Derek all right... straight and strong. How long had they known each other? It seemed a lifetime, yet as she counted backwards it had been only fifteen years. 

They had met when a San Francisco Legacy case had merged with a case she had been prosecuting as Assistant District Attorney in Los Angeles. She had seen the haunted look in Derek's eyes that bespoke of a soul that had borne unspeakable horrors, had suffered, and had lost, again and again. It was a look that she had known well.... She had seen it in cops... and in victims... but mostly it had been the look in her older brother's eyes when he had returned from Vietnam. 

Matt Hamilton had lost his battle with the black Harpies of despair, but in Derek she had sensed a desire to live, to love, to fight another day... and so this enigmatic man had become her special cause. When he needed her, she would be his refuge against the Harpies, the demons, the Legacy's creatures of the night. She would offer him an escape where Derek Rayne, precept, could be Derek Rayne, sweet pea, sugar, darlin', or whatever it took to prick a hole in his ego and breech his fortress walls to make him laugh at the world and at himself.... When he did, she thought, it was a marvelous laugh, indeed. 

"It was a real good vacation, Darlin'... wasn't it?" she sighed. "I wish we could've stayed longer... but I have to get back to work... and, my furry baby'll be popping soon, if she hasn't already. Then there'll be lots of hungry, whimpering mouths all looking for faucets." 

"I, too, have a million things on hold," Derek agreed, "but that can wait another day. I promise this trip to Angel Island will be more pleasant than your last." 

Maggie reached over to take the precept's hand. "Sugar, I don't even want to think about last time," she said, as she fought the memory of a comatose Derek struggling to fend off death. She hesitated a moment, then continued, "You're sure about this? It won't make things... awkward... for Alex... if I spend the night at the House? You're not just using me to make a statement?" 

"Nonsense.... It's my home," Derek replied. "I've enjoyed the hospitality of your roof many a time. I want you to enjoy the hospitality of mine for a change... something that should've happened long ago.... and, perhaps, we can lay a few ghosts to rest," he added with a small, crooked smile. 

So I am being used, Maggie thought, but let it pass. "Honey bunch," she said instead, with a wicked twinkle in her eye. "I promise you that any 'laying' that goes on won't involve ghosts." 

Derek warmly squeezed her hand, then brought it once more to his lips. "Thank you... for kidnaping me... for taking me to paradise... for every moment... even the windsurfing and the battered ego," he chuckled. "I feel like me again.... Does that make sense?" 

"Hmmm... mmmm," she agreed, "speaking of feeling you again, are you up to a little adventure, Stud Muffin?" 

Even as he blushed, Derek couldn't help but laugh. "What did you have in mind, Your Honor?" he asked uneasily. He loved her adventurous eccentricities, but she was a judge and he was a Legacy precept, about to resume his duties, and all that they entailed. 

"You ever heard of the 'Mile High Club'?" she asked, glancing around the deck. Most of their fellow passengers were engrossed in their individual satellite TV and telephone systems, or were trying to get some sleep. "We might as well take our play time to an even higher note... don't you think?" 

"Surely, you don't mean?..." Derek gulped. He, too, looked round to reassure himself that they had not been overheard. "Where?" 

"They don't call it a 'privy' for nothin', Sugar... and it's here... right in front of our seats... I made sure of that," she explained. "I'll go first... give me a couple of minutes, then knock twice, and I'll let you in." A wide grin split her face. "Come on, Darlin'." She grabbed her purse, kissed the tip of his nose, then left her seat, turning back to whisper, "You only live once." 

Chewing nervously on his thumb nail, Derek debated the wisdom of this little escapade. He imagined the newspaper headlines... _**Prominent Philanthropist and Superior Court Judge Arrested for Gross Indecency in Public Restroom**_. 

He glanced around... no one was paying the least attention. He pushed himself to his feet, casually slipped off his jacket, stepped up to the door and tapped twice. The door opened and he sidled in. Scrunched face to face with Maggie, he declared, "There's not enough room in here." 

"Oh, come on, Sugar," she whispered. "That excuse won't fly. Didn't you ever do it in a VW Beetle when you were a kid?" 

"I'm not a kid any longer... nor a contortionist," Derek retorted. 

Maggie paid no mind, but pulled his face down to hers, then nibbled on his lips while her hands were busy unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it free of his trousers. As one hand wandered to his chest, the other slid over his bronzed, flat stomach, and began to move downward. 

Surrendering to the moment, Derek's long, delicate fingers found her blouse buttons and the clasp to her bra. In seconds she was free. He responded eagerly to her kisses... to the warm swell of her breasts against his body. He slid his hand beneath the floral rayon of her skirt, then up her long, smooth legs to discover that she had already discarded her panties. With a musician's touch he brushed a silken wetness and found what he sought. 

At his touch, his lover's sharp intake of breath and happy sigh betrayed her eagerness. He was aware of her fingers at his belt... unbuckling... the sound of the zipper... his pants being pushed down. He felt her hands move along his erection... felt the tautness of himself, and the euphoria of her expert stimulation. 

"So, you are up for it?" she whispered huskily. 

"Ummm.... mmm," he murmured from the depths of a soul absorbing kiss. 

+ 

**_Later_**... 

Once again fully clothed and primped, Maggie smiled contentedly at her reflection over the wash basin.... she looked like that cat that got the cream. "I'm the cat that got the cream," she whispered in his ear. 

"That was... incredible," he murmured in an accent that had thickened with emotion. "Was it my imagination... the earth moving?" 

"Darlin', in case you've forgotten, we're in a plane.... Turbulence? Remember?" she said in a dead-panned flatness. 

The precept laughed as Maggie helped him button up and smoothed his hair back into place. 

"Hold me for a few more minutes... please, Darlin'," she begged. "Then I guess we'd better get back to our seats. They might be lining up outside. Wouldn't want any puddles on their nice carpeting." 

Derek laughed again. "We're getting too old for this," he said. "It's a wonder one of us didn't get into a position that neither one of us could get out of. Could you imagine getting a kink in here and having to be pried from this shoe box by the flight attendants?" Again he chuckled at the image in his mind, even as he kissed the top of her head and wrapped his long arms round her slight body. "I'm going to store this moment," he told her. "Lock it away forever in my memory's treasure chest. No matter how bad things get... I'll have this. Thank you again, _**Liefje**_." 

They stood in silence, wrapped in each other's arms for several, heavenly minutes, then after one last, deep kiss, Derek released her and they maneuvered the door open. Ever the gentleman, the precept allowed her to exit first. 

Stepping out, Maggie whispered over her shoulder, "All's clear." 

As Derek followed, a harshly familiar voice shattered his peaceful idyll. "Have you finished screwing around yet, Rayne? Are you ever going to get back to work?" 

Derek turned in shock as a voice he'd thought never to hear again echoed through his brain. As he had been face to face with Maggie moments earlier, so he was now face to face with the smug countenance of William Sloan. His senses turned cartwheels... Sloan!... It couldn't be! He's gone! It must be a creature from the depths of Hell. 

The precept felt his mind react to his own shock and panic... the PK!... pressure was building to lash out... to blast the creature back to the purgatory from whence it had come. Somewhere he heard glass explode and a woman's scream. "No!" he cried aloud, struggling. He couldn't lose control here... not on the plane! Searing waves of agony swept through his brain as he pulled the power back into himself. 

As his knees turned to water, the last thing his eyes registered before welcoming blackness rushed in to claim his mind and consciousness was Sloan's look of utter shock as he staggered back against the bulkhead. 

+ 

**_San Francisco International Airport_**

Wandering around the upper level, arrivals concourse, Nick Boyle felt good... relaxed and happy. The helicopter was fueled and ready. With it they'd be able to avoid the heat, the heavy, rush hour traffic, and the construction of SFO's new international concourse. He regretted having left Hallie back in Pasadena... he smiled to himself at the thought of her. She'd saved his bacon when the puppies started arriving... all ten of them, six males, four females and, thanks to Hallie, all healthy. "Ten," he murmured to himself. "Could've been a Disney cartoon." He felt in his pocket for her card... it was a phone number and E-mail addy that he definitely intended to use. 

Now, Nick sighed with satisfaction... all he had to do was collect Maggie and Derek, give the judge the good news, and chopper them back to the island. The ex-SEAL offered up a silent prayer, "Please God, let him be a relaxed precept in a good mood." Absent mindedly, he watched a young black woman with billowing hair and suitcase in tow, scurry toward the escalator. He thought of Alex, and smiled, wondering what her mood would be at supper. Although he couldn't put his finger on it, he always sensed a prickliness in his friend, like that of an out-of-sorts porcupine, when an "old" or a "new" friend of Derek's parked her pantihose in the guest bath, which wasn't often. Derek didn't usually bring 'em home. 

Unbidden, thoughts of Cross then crept into Nick's mind... thoughts that he promptly shoved to the rear. He'd worry about that bastard later... or an up-to-speed Derek would demolish the SOB. Suddenly, his ear caught the tail-end of an announcement... something about Flight 805 from Miami? He turned to see the arrival board's digital numbers change. It was landing now. Nick glanced at his watch... fifteen minutes early. "Nothing lands early," he muttered. "Hell, nothing lands on time any more." His gut began to churn, somehow he knew this was not a good sign. 

With a shout to clear the way, a team of paramedics came barreling through the concourse, pushing a gurney. Nick knew instantly that it was for Derek. Something had gone wrong! 

Running after them, the former SEAL shouted, "What happened?" But he was ignored. As they disappeared down a ramp, he was firmly halted by airport security. 

For twenty minutes Nick paced, tiger-like, back and forth, casting worried glances towards the entry ramp. He frantically quizzed the airline staff, but beyond their confirmation that the pilot had declared an emergency because a passenger had been taken ill, he could get nothing. 

Every wild scenario imaginable flooded his mind. However, he knew that in the world of Derek Rayne and the Legacy nothing was unimaginable. At last, he spotted the paramedics pulling the gurney down the ramp. Maggie and several airline employees accompanied the medics. Nick jumped the rail, and, like a quarterback in a dead run for the goal line, made it to the precept's side. 

"Derek!" he called anxiously. His eyes raked over the prone man... the front of the precept's shirt was crimson, his face pale, and a saline drip was already implanted in his arm. Nick searched Maggie's face, and read the barely concealed fear in her eyes. Christ! he thought.... There'd been another PK episode... on the plane this time. 

But Derek was awake... he managed a weak smile. "It's OK," he said, trying to reassure his Security Officer, his friend. "No thanks to that bastard," he added, with a nod of his head, up and back. "So much for three years of peace and quiet." 

Nick glanced up to see the face of William Sloan. He suddenly felt his own consciousness slip. He'd seen the man invite the "Winston-demon" into his own body. He had seen him step into the circle of sepulchres, turn the keys, and be sucked into Hell. As he felt Derek's hand grasp his wrist, Nick anchored himself in the feel of that touch, and looked down into the drowsy, hazel eyes. "Son-of-a-bitch!" he exclaimed. 

Derek smiled again. "You did better than I. Look where I landed." He struggled to rise from the gurney, but one of the medics firmly pushed him back down. "I'm fine," he declared. "I want to go home.... Let me off this 'pram'." 

"Sorry, mister... first stop is the ER, so you can get checked out." The medic glanced at the blood drenched shirt. "You're going to need more fluids than this," he said, thunking the saline bag. 

"Come on, Darlin'," Maggie begged sweetly, trying to mask her anxiety in an accentuated drawl. "Let's play nice. Let these guys make sure you're OK.... Have a few glasses of orange juice... get a little sugar water pumped into the plumbing... maybe it'll sweeten up that sour disposition of yours." 

With a sigh and a weary nod, Derek surrendered. 

+ 

**_Airport Medical Clinic_**

Sloan glanced round the room where he, Boyle, and that harridan from Hell had been left stewing. Christ, were these rooms all the same, he wondered... all decked out in stained Formica... soulless, uncomfortable, little cells that resonated with human fear and misery. 

Boyle was studiously ignoring him. Holding Maggie's hand, the ex-SEAL was getting her version of events. Sloan heard her vehemently voicing her opinion of him... words like crass, stupid, and vindictive nitwit, peppered the lady's impressive repertoire. Beneath those judge's robes lay the soul of a truck driver. He acknowledged to himself that he couldn't argue with her opinion of him right now. 

"Damn it, man!" he berated himself. "You could've killed him. Please, God, let him be OK." Sloan knew the doctor on board the plane had initially feared a heart attack, or a seizure. Derek had been out cold for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably less than ten minutes. 

Had the plane been further out and had no physician been aboard, the pilot would have diverted to Reno or Las Vegas... or wherever a 747 could land. As it was they got a straight in clearance... no mean trick at the seventh busiest airport in the world. 

All three looked up as the door opened, and a harassed doctor appeared. 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&

**Part 21**

**_San Francisco Legacy House, Nick Boyle's Room   
Saturday, 2:57 a.m._**

A high pressure bubble had settled a blanket of Great Basin heat over the whole of California. Even in the wee hours with the windows open, the interior of the great house in the midst of the bay sweltered. 

"No!" Nick bolted up in bed. He gasped for breath and tossed his damp sheet aside. Had he cried aloud? In his sleep, he had seen his friend growing weaker and weaker... hazel eyes had pled for help while creatures... black, nameless things, with toothless, gaping mouths... Hell's leeches... had sucked the life from him. The foul smell of sulphur had permeated the air. Then he saw a coffin... God!... Derek!... his face as white as chalk... lying in a coffin... positioned before the portal... ready to be slid into the crematory of Hell's inferno. 

The ex-SEAL breathed deeply, slowly... struggling to calm his nerves. No sounds of running... no anxious calls. His cry had been confined to his dream! He sighed with relief. "God, what a day!" he murmured as he ran his hands through his sweaty hair. 

Snatching his plastic water bottle from the night stand, Nick took a deep swig and pushed the memory from his mind. This was all Sloan's fault. Damn the man!... damn, damn, damn him! "He should've stayed in Hell," he said as he took another deep swig. "I'll bet he was right at home there." 

Was he being too hard on William Sloan? No!... not by half. London House had briefed Sloan... on everything... the destruction of the "other" San Francisco House... the portal... everything that had happened during his absence. He knew how much tragedy there had been... how badly Derek's health, physically and emotionally, had suffered during the past year. But... no!... three years in Hell hadn't changed him one bit.... As always, William Sloan knew best... but to spring that "surprise" on Derek, then wonder why he had collapsed! 

Sinking back into the pillows, unwilling to go back to sleep until he had rid himself of that last nightmarish image... the mask of death on Derek's face... Nick allowed his mind to mull the situation. 

What the hell was wrong with Sloan? He's supposed to be Derek's friend... in a weird sort of way. An unwelcome thought crossed Nick's mind. Did Sloan blame Derek for what had happened to him? Was this some sort of twisted revenge for his three years in purgatory, or wherever he had been? Did he hold Derek to blame for having succumbed to the demon that had presented itself as Winston Rayne? Sloan had chosen to invite the demon into himself and to then step into the sepulchres.... His choice... to save Derek... to save them all. It had been an heroic act of self-sacrifice. Had the Darkside won after all? Had he become Satan's double agent? Was his heart as black as Hell, corrupted beyond redemption? 

As he watched his clock's red numbers... red like the blood on Derek's shirt... flick by, Nick fretted at the nagging feeling that Sloan might have started history repeating itself in some God-awful cycle.... What was it called?... a time loop? Never before had the nature time or space concerned him... but now?... Now he knew that it was as unstable and treacherous as the eddies and currents in the depths surrounding Angel Island. 

The former SEAL took another long drink and pondered.... Derek has collapsed before, and everyone had thought he was OK... on the mend. He smiled, recalling the precept's constant assertion that he was "Fine." But he hadn't been fine... that collapse had led to eight months of coma, and nearly to his death... and that bastard Sloan might have restarted the whole damned thing. 

And now... Derek's lying in the same room, snapping at everyone who gets close, telling everyone that he's "Fine" and wants to be left alone. Even Maggie had received a broadside. "Fine," Nick muttered to himself, "maybe in Dutch it means 'I'm in real bad shape... so watch out.'" 

He shook his head to cast aside the night terrors, then picked up his journal from the night stand, and his pen, which Derek had given him all those years ago. He then calmly cleared his mind with a mental tai-chi exercise and began to write: 

_**I couldn't believe the tale Sloan told us at the hospital, but a call to Cross confirmed it all. They think that when the other-world's portal to Hell blew and "Winston" was sucked down the rabbit hole of the sepulchres, it caused all sorts of weird events in our world, and maybe in countless other worlds. **_

Rachel! Eat your heart out! So it was all in Derek's mind? More psycho-babble from the attitude queen. No that's cruel. She lives it, but she can't face the reality of it. If she can bury it all in psychoanalytical bull shit, she can ignore what her own mind doesn't want to face - chaos. 

Cross - I couldn't believe I was listening to that jackass, much less trusting him. He said that no one really understands what happened. They even called in Stephen Hawking, that physicist guy at Cambridge. The best guess is that waves of energy were disbursed throughout all time lines in all universes - or whatever they are - and weaknesses in the time lines gave way for an instant. That light that exploded around us in Derek's room was repeated elsewhere - wherever there was a weakness. 

In our world, it returned Derek to his own body, destroyed the Jawa creatures (destroyed them in real life, but they still haunt my dreams), and spat Sloan out like a cork from a bottle. He'd never made it to Hell. Since he'd stepped into the sepulchres of his own will, knowing what he was doing, and it was his physical body as well as his soul that went in, he ended up in that limbo that Derek had talked about - where the strands of light criss-cross - neither here nor there nor anywhere - and then when the portal blew or when Derek was catapulted back through the void into his own body, in his own world - it caused the total disruption. 

Sloan suddenly appeared at home - pop goes the weasel! - gave his poor wife the shock of her life. She had just about reconciled herself to widowhood and had even started seeing someone - Mr. Franklin Cross, of all people. I thought she had better taste. The only way they can explain it is that Sloan landed at the source of his strongest emotional attachment, his family. 

Since he was in pretty dicey shape and it took a while for the Council to give him a clean bill of health - physically, mentally, spiritually - they decided that Sloan's return would be kept hush-hush. Then, even after he'd been vetted out, Derek was still in lousy shape, so they kept it from us all. Cross was supposed to be conducting a "recon" on how ready we... or rather Derek... was for the news. 

I don't think they know what to do with Sloan. After all, there's a new Ruling Precept. I just don't get why he had to surprise Derek... like some teenaged prank. He's no idiot. Like Derek, he's had six months to absorb what he's missed, to cope with the shock. No! That's not right - he was on vacation in limboland. He hasn't been through half of what Derek's been through. 

"Good thing Patty didn't marry," Nick sniggered to himself. "Especially to Cross... Mrs. Patricia Cross? It might have gotten interesting." He laid down the pen and glanced towards his bedroom door. Should he go check on Derek again? Make sure he's just sleeping and not slipped into a coma? 

"No," he muttered indecisively, "he didn't appreciate the last visit." Sometime after midnight, he had crept into Derek's room. He had stood staring intently at the sleeping figure, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. But fear had taken over... had it been sleep... or something more nefarious? 

He had nervously shaken Derek's shoulder, called to him, watched his still face apprehensively. Relief had swept through him when the groggy, Dutch voice told him, in no uncertain terms to _**'rot op'**_... no translation needed. 

"Oh, hell...," he said, once more running his hand through his short hair, "maybe I'll check one more time. He can have my head on a platter if he wants it, but I'll die knowing he's OK and I did my job." He pushed himself off the bed, grabbed his robe, and headed for the door. 

+ 

**_San Francisco Legacy House, William Sloan's Room   
Saturday, 2:57 a.m._**

"Damn the man! Damn, damn, damn him!" Sloan muttered vehemently. Realising there would be no sleep tonight, he wandered into the bathroom to get a glass of water, then returned to sit on the edge of his rumpled bed. 

He couldn't rid himself of the image of Derek's face... the complete loss of color, the shock and horror... written across it before he had collapsed. "Christ, I thought I'd killed him." 

He had stupidly stood aside and stared as Maggie and the flight attendants had clustered around, trying to find a pulse, trying to make sure Derek was breathing. They had called for a doctor on board. "Sloan... my boy... you're not up to par yourself.... It was a bonehead play, and a worse response.... You froze." 

Paralysed, he had watched crimson flow from Derek's nose. His own breathing had stopped, as he had concentrated all his senses on his friend... willed him to be OK. 

As soon as Derek had come round, that harridan Maggie Hamilton had pulled him into the galley. "My God that woman has a mouth on her!" Sloan thought aloud. "'Peckerwood'... that's a good, old Southern one I've not heard in a while... but 'vindictive'? Can she really think I'd ever hurt that Dutch nincompoop?" 

"OK," he argued with himself, a habit he'd developed to stay sane in his timeless netherworld of non-existence, where three years had seemed but three days, and three days had seemed an eternity. "Maybe I did want to shake him up a little... see the look on his face... that fantasy kept me going. Besides I know him better than any of them. I know his strengths... which are formidable. I know his weaknesses. He wastes his energy contemplating his own navel... playing his own mind games... and they all let him.... They pander to that side of his character.... like he's some sort of mysterious mage. All except Rachel, who seems to think we're all a bunch of dictators. 

"For an arrogant man, Derek's so goddamned insecure... always fretting about his own weaknesses... fretting about matching up to what he expects of himself... hell! No one could match up to that... then concealing the doubts and fears under a camouflage of secrecy and absolute, obnoxious certainty. "He needed a good, swift kick in the ass," Sloan muttered. "I give him something else to concentrate on. Fighting _**me!**_ Proving _**me **_wrong." 

He began to pace round his room... trying not to let Boyle's obvious anxieties over Derek's health get to him, and failing miserably. Boyle's changed, he realized.... the edginess is still there, but the rage is gone. He's grown up... become a rock.... He's truly become Derek's right hand and 'watcher'... and slipped into his father's shoes. "I wonder if he realizes. 

"Nick's got a good head on his shoulders... good nerves... and he's scared," the precept admitted to himself. "Shit, what if Derek does fall into a coma? The Council said it was touch and go for months... and it's been a hard road back.... Another coma?..." His gut told him his friend wouldn't survive another such illness. 

Sloan paused by the window to stare morosely out into the black night. In his current mood, the distant lights of the city no longer enticed, all that life... all that bustle... mocked him. His own image mocked him... a tangled mass of thinning, gray hair atop a gaunt face reminded him of a photo he'd once seen of an elderly orangutang. 

This is that idiot Cross' fault, he thought, all he was supposed to do was sound out Derek's team to find out how strong he was... mentally and physically, see how he'd take the news of my return. But the pompous idiot wrapped a simple job in so much red tape he got nowhere.... "What else could I do?" he asked himself. I had to check myself... Hell, Derek seemed fine... thin, but fine... having a jolly, old time with Maggie... including their little rendezvous in the john. How was I to know? 

"And that unsubtle, inept moron, Cross, only succeeded in spreading fear and paranoia in Derek's team.... Of course, they'd keep the PK a secret from him.... I sure as hell would." Sloan shook his head in amazement. "How could the Council ever think he was 'precept' material?... And what did Patty see in him?" He shivered at that thought. 

"Hmm, another of Derek's little foibles that needs curbing," Sloan muttered. "His fears and paranoia infect the others. Doesn't he... or his team... realise how valuable he is to the Legacy? Can they all be that dense? The Ruling Council bends over backwards to accommodate his idiosyncrasies, because we know how much we need him. Hell... who but Derek Rayne could be gutsy enough to trap the vampire, Charles Banyon, or sneaky and brave enough to defeat the Portal and the demon of the sepulchres... and survive? What if he had lost? How many worlds, how many times would have suffered?" 

William walked over to pick up his watch from the dresser. With a shake of his head, he raised his eyes skyward. He had checked on Derek little more than an hour before and had not been thanked for his concern... and here he was, looking at his damned watch again. "Jesus," he muttered, "I've only been exposed to Rayne a few hours and already the 'nanny' gene is dominant. Damn the man! 

"But it was my fault.... a stupid prank.... I'll go check again... just make sure he's OK," he suddenly decided, and grabbing his robe, he headed for the door. 

+ 

**_San Francisco Legacy House, Derek Rayne's Room   
Saturday, 2:57 a.m._**

Derek glanced at his clock, and sighed... he wasn't likely to get back to sleep now. His mind was jumbled, his thought patterns totally out of kilter... racing. 

His room, his sanctuary, had become the set for a French farce... Moliere at his best. First, Rachel had fussed over him. Then Alex had knocked on his door at midnight, to see if he wanted a drink of water or anything! Finally he had slipped off to sleep, and Nick had crept in to check on him and had ended up shaking him awake.... Then Sloan... who's next? The cat? or maybe Kat... or Christina with a rhyme... or maybe Ingrid will come flying down from the convent on a broomstick, he thought with a chuckle. All the while, the person he wanted in his room had yet to make an appearance... thanks to his unforgivable behavior. He had snapped her head off for daring to call him "Darlin'" and for telling Dominick that he'd be having his supper in his room... in bed... in front of the others. 

_**"Godverdomme!"**_ he had declared. "I am not an invalid... and it is not your place to tell Dominick anything, Madam." He felt such an idiot... fainting like a Victorian heroine with an attack of the vapours! All he'd wanted to do was put his "shameful swoon" behind him, but his temper had flared. He blushed in embarrassment at the memory of his childish tantrum. "Christ! Rayne... and on our last night together," he berated himself. "Some cordial host you are!" 

"Why are they all so worried?" he pondered aloud. The most serious wound he had suffered had been to his pride. But Sloan!... appearing like that... Gott he'd thought it was a demon... after the Winston-creature's loss to the eternal time loop, Hell had conjured up another monstrosity to torment him. Who better than William Sloan? 

His PK had been about to violently lash out, to blast the creature, but he was on a plane. He could have blown them out of the sky... killed everyone... perhaps even countless numbers on the ground. So, he'd dragged the power back into himself. It had seared through his mind... and had perhaps burned itself out. He hoped it had. That talent had its uses and its humorous moments, but it was too unstable, too difficult to control... and too dangerous to be uncontrolled. The pain stabbing through his mind was the last thing he remembered before blackness claimed him. 

He had regained consciousness to find his shirt bloodied and to see a mass of pale faces surrounding him. Sloan's expression had been one he had rarely seen on the man... contriteness and fear. Maggie had demolished him and he'd had no easy, glib retort. Sloan had to be real... a demon would have withered under that onslaught. 

He was certain it was William... it felt like William Sloan... his "Sight" seemed willing to accept him as the real McCoy. "All the same," Derek murmured, "I'll keep an eye on him... just in case." Could he be tainted? Has a deal been struck? 

"Please, God... no," the precept prayed. "You've redeemed my greatest moment of weakness... my greatest mistake of all. I wasn't strong enough to resist the demon, and it cost my best friend his life... to save me... and my House. Now you've given him back... please, let it be so." 

Gott... it was hot!... Derek walked to the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face. He missed the balmy, tropical breeze of St. Theodore's. He smiled at the memories that flooded back, the sun... the sea... the sand... the sex! Maggie... hmm... his body responded to the thought and a warm, insistent throb began to announce its presence. 

He reached for his robe... time for a surreptitious visit... time to make amends. Would Maggie forgive him? Even before the blow-up, she had diplomatically ensconced herself in the guest suite at the far end of the corridor. Would the door now be locked? No.... Derek knew his Maggie... she'd forgive him. She would bluster a little. She had, as William had put it, "One hell of a mouth on her." He grinned in anticipation, thinking of her lovely mouth... maybe... if he was really lucky!... 

+ 

**_San Francisco Legacy House, Corridor Outside Derek's Room   
Saturday, 3:12 a.m._**

Sloan hurried towards Derek's room from the east, Nick from the west. They met outside... each wondering how to explain why they were in the corridor at three in the morning. 

"Ahhh... I thought I heard something...," Nick mumbled unconvincingly. 

"So did I." Sloan leapt at the lifeline. "Maybe it was Derek?" They both nodded, relieved.... They had saved face, and could still check on their friend... after all someone must have made the noise they'd both so clearly "heard". 

The bedroom door suddenly opened and Derek stepped out, nearly falling over Nick. He hastily stepped to the right and collided with Sloan. 

"What's going on!" he exclaimed. "Dammit! Are you two holding a convention out here, or is the house on fire?" 

"We heard something... a noise," they both said at once, aware of how feeble the story sounded. "So... why are you up?" Nick asked, pointedly turning the tables. 

Derek blushed, pulled his robe around him, then realised Nick was wondering why he was out of bed... _**verdomme!... **_caught! He grasped at the same story. "Me, too... I heard something," he announced. If it was good enough for them, it was certainly good enough for him. "And... might I remind you... it is my house... I can be up when I please, Mr. Boyle... Mr. Sloan." 

Nick had long since learned what he now thought of as the _**Rayne Playbook of Evasive Tactics**_... and he had developed a few countermeasures of his own. "How 'bout a nice cold beer?" he suggested, maintaining a straight face. Heard something... like hell, Derek was off to Maggie's room for some night maneuvers. 

"There's plenty in the fridge... it's sooo damned hot.... Today's Saturday... nothing on the schedule... we can tie one on and sleep late." 

Sloan smiled wryly, enjoying Derek's disconcerted expression... time for a little double teaming. "So, tell us about your vacation... What 'else' did you do... any other 'exotic' locales?" 

Derek's mind skimmed past the "what elses in the exotic locales" and censored most of it. He bit back his frustration, maybe he could have a quick beer, then subtly extricate himself from his friends' company and hope that Maggie was still receptive to a "visit". No! he thought, subtle be damned... I'll bore them so much they'll be glad to see the back of me. 

"I played golf, and I got a hole-in-one!" he announced proudly. "Shall I tell you all about it... all eighteen holes? Stroke by stroke. You should enjoy that, William." 

"There are strokes and then there are strokes.... A hole-in-one, you say?" Sloan nodded knowingly as an image flitted through his mind. "I assume it was a case of knocking a single, white ball into a hole in the middle of a golf course?" 

Derek spluttered, "A Titleist Three... and it was a miraculous shot on a par four." 

A door down the hall opened and Maggie, attired in a flowing peignoir, stepped out. "Derek Rayne... what in the hell are you doin' outta bed?" she drawled as she strode down the corridor with aqua satin billowing behind her. "You get your behind back in that bed right now," she ordered, forcibly turning him around and pushing him back toward his room. 

"Gentlemen... court is adjourned," she said with her blue, unwavering gaze locked upon their faces. "Good night." 

Sloan and Nick exchanged panicky looks. Demons from hell were easy compared to this woman. With backs pressed closely to the wall, the two Legacy "warriors" edged past the door toward the stairs. 

"Ahhh... well... uhmm... Maggie's right... Derek you go... get some rest," Sloan agreed, giving his friend an additional push towards the open door. Feeling as if he was offering up a sacrifice, he glimpsed Derek's expression as the precept glanced over his shoulder.... The amused, wicked twinkle in the hazel eyes told William the sacrifice was an eager lamb indeed. 

"Now... you two... shooo! Get yourselves back to bed where you belong," Maggie ordered like a drill sergeant. "You can leave Dr. Rayne in my capable hands," she said as she pushed Derek into the room and closed the door behind them. 

Both men clearly heard the click of the lock and gazed at each other with knowing smiles. 

"Beer?" said Nick. 

"Why not," replied Sloan. 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

**Part 22 - Epilog**

**_London... the next night_**

William Sloan sat in a coffee shop with a large cup of cappuccino rapidly cooling on the table in front of him. He dejectedly stretched out his finger to doodle on the misted window. He had arrived at Heathrow a couple of hours before, but rather than heading straight home he had made his way into the city. 

Now he was sitting, staring out the window at the bright lights of Soho that glittered enticingly. At night the old town put on her tawdry make-up and beckoned, but the bustle of London's street life held little interest. He needed to think, to be anonymous, and this was as good a place as any. 

He should go home to Patty and make sure that idiot, Cross, wasn't still sniffing round! He'd like to drop kick the bastard into the middle of the Atlantic. Sloan thought of the time he'd spent in limbo, or wherever the hell he'd been... between universes perhaps, or in the space that binds molecules together... or between seconds. He'd been aware of his body... he'd felt the blood throbbing in his veins... the air rushing in and out of his lungs, but strangely he hadn't been conscious of time at all... a second or an hour or a year had all been the same. Yet a part of his intellectual mind had been certain that only a day or two had passed... not years! 

His daughters had grown into young ladies. His wife had gained a few new wrinkles, and some well concealed grey hair.... And all he could really remember was being caught up in some sort of cosmic light show... spinning jewels and iridescent strands criss-crossing like spiders' webs... stretching off into all directions of infinity. Had he seen what bound the universe together? The mathematicians and physicists thought so, but the psychologists insisted that it was how his own mind chose to cope with it all. Idiots!... That didn't explain where his physical body had been for three years... and, oddly, though he had taken no nourishment in all that time, he'd lost only fifteen pounds. He'd been weak and stiff from inactivity, but not like it should have been. Hell, he should be dead... or in Hell. 

No matter where he had been, the return had been difficult... to fight through the disorientation, to regain health... to adjust, to come to terms with the missing years. What now?... There was a new Ruling Precept. He could hardly expect the job to have been left open. They were promising him the next vacancy on the Ruling Council... but he had the feeling that it was an empty promise. Did they trust him? He felt uneasy with his friends, his family as they tiptoed around him. Dammit! The only person who could possibly understand how... and what... he felt... was Derek. His waking from his coma came damned close to what Sloan had experienced. The precept instantly regretted that thought... Derek's waking hadn't been like his... not at all. 

The urge to write came over him. From his jacket's inner pocket, he pulled the small notebook that he always carried... only to realize that he had filled the last page halfway across the Atlantic. Sloan snorted in frustration, then noticed the blank back of the cafe's paper menu. He could scribble his thoughts and transcribe later.  ****

It's comforting for me to believe that Derek's experience was like my own, but I do my friend an injustice. As I floated there in a cosmic isolation chamber, he lived two lives at once. His deteriorating body lay clinging to life, while his mind participated in the defeat of the ultimate evil and experienced all the pain and desolation of seeing the San Francisco House - not his House, but in almost all ways identical - destroyed. I must wonder if his "other-self" was a totally separate soul or are we all in these many separate universes part of one soul that is the being called Derek Rayne or William Sloan? Either way, he witnessed his life destroyed - all for the greater good, of course. 

Derek's battle back has been as heroic and obstinate as the rest of his life has been - mine, in comparison, has been easy. Like a child studying for a history exam, I am dealing with a blank slate of three years. Derek, in catching up on the events of this world, now had two sets of memories, both real, but only the learned one valid for this world. 

The Council is still worried about his health. It's ironic - all these years they have tolerated his idiosyncrasies for a multitude of reasons: the wealth and financial knowledge he shares with the Legacy; the fact that he is so damned good at what he does; and the debt that we all owe him. But for years, they have regarded it as a debt only - recompense to an "anointed" sacrifice who, to everyone's consternation, survived his fate - a truly terrifying thought. 

Now, however, they know his destiny may yet lie open. To all of them, friend and foe alike, he has once more become the Legacy's most valuable asset. I've not been enlightened, but they know that what happened in that "other" world was real. They want to wrap Derek in cotton wool to protect him - to tuck him away, like a secret, biological weapon, until needed in that ultimate battle - and it is that very "protectiveness" which will drive him to take foolish risks. 

Since I'm at loose ends for the time being and they want to get Cross back at his books, where the tactless idiot belongs, I'm being detailed to step into that bastard's shoes to keep an eye on things in San Francisco. That won't sit well with the "Lord of the Manor", but he'll have to live with it. At least I know how to handle Derek Rayne - no mollycoddling. Challenge the bastard - raise the rail twice as high. Make him think. Make him work. 

William allowed his gaze to drift back to the hustle-bustle beyond the window. He thought of Derek and suddenly realised that part of the combativeness of their relationship was that Derek had always made him feel slightly inferior... not intellectually nor physically. He cared for Derek... always had... like a proud, older brother.... Though not that much younger, Derek had been his charge, his challenge... a challenge like a wild, stubborn jackass... his protege, and his "gift" to the Legacy. Why did he think of that word "gift"? Was it because he sensed something in his friend's soul... some nobility or goodness, that he felt missing in his own? 

Again he turned to his makeshift journal.  ****

Sloan, my boy - admit it. You didn't do so bad yourself. I stepped into that circle and I don't regret it. Not one damned moment of it. I'd do it again... to save Derek... the others... everyone... from that bastard, Winston. Whatever it was that I enticed from Derek's mind and body into my own had once been Winston Rayne. I'm certain of it, but how do I tell Derek? Could he tell? Only God and Satan know what monster he's become. But that was why Derek couldn't fight it. He'd fought possession once before and had both lost and won, but with Winston, he had lost before the battle could begin. 

Sloan's thoughts ran to an irreverent rhyme... what was it now?... 

"They fuck you up, your mum and dad,   
They may not mean to, but they do,   
They fill you with the faults they had   
And add some extra, just for you!" 

Shaking his head, he glanced at his watch and frowned irritably when he realised it was still on San Francisco time. What would Derek be doing now, he wondered. The damned man... Sloan shook his head ruefully, then paused, as he ran over the events of the past twenty-four hours. 

Once more he scribbled:  ****

The Universe does, indeed, work in mysterious ways. Early Saturday morning, we all made idiots of ourselves - Derek, Boyle and I - when we did a cut-rate Three Stooges act in the corridor. Naturally, Ms. Hanging Judge came onto the scene and took charge of her Dutch lover-boy. Thank God - I'd not care to be the focus of that tongue again. The woman doesn't breathe. 

Boyle and I slipped downstairs to ponder Derek's fate at the hands of that Texas tornado and to discuss the ways of the world over a couple of cold beers. I like the kid - he's a good man. I think he's Derek's "gift" to the Legacy. 

The irony of the Universe! He chuckled at the memory. Later, at breakfast, Boyle had been reading the paper, when he had noticed that a recent lottery jackpot had gone unclaimed... and that the winning ticket had been sold near LAX. He asked Derek if he had checked the ticket he had bought on the way to the airport. Derek had forgotten the thing and hadn't even realised he was supposed to check the numbers. Sloan remembered that they had all rounded on him for being so out of touch with the real world. 

"What a prize idiot!" he had declared none too gently. 

Derek had snapped back, "If you're so curious about the damned thing you can trot upstairs and get it yourself. It's in my wallet in my jacket pocket." 

Sloan had trudged upstairs, cussing the man. When he had come back down he had picked up the newspaper and had cried aloud, "My God! I don't believe it!" and with a shaking hand he had offered the ticket to Boyle to double-check. Derek Rayne, multi-millionaire, had won the damned lottery. 

Was this God's little game? Or.. maybe, Sloan considered reluctantly, Satan's show. How the hell could Derek be "blessed" with such amazing luck on one hand and be tortured by fate on the other. The phrase, "lucky at cards... unlucky in love," ran through Sloan's mind. But was Derek unlucky in love? He considered all the tragedies, but then his mind wandered forward to all the people who loved Derek Rayne... despite his arrogance, his high-handedness... all his many faults. There was Boyle, Alex, Ingrid, Dominick, Rachel, Maggie, Kat... Dammit!... the list went on and on. He wished he had such a list. And you, Sloan, he conceded, you can't help but care for the Dutch nincompoop. 

He shook his head... maybe he was the fool for trying to make sense of any of it. Perhaps he should admit that it was all really a celestial chess match... maybe the Greeks had it right with their tumultuous gods and goddesses. Perhaps, he should accept his role as pawn. He reached into his pocket to pay his bill and pulled out a negative. Shit! It had been in Derek's wallet and had fallen out when he had found the lottery ticket. He'd meant to put it back. Sloan held the dark square to the light and studied the reverse image. A grin split his face and he chuckled aloud, ignoring the surprised glances from his fellow customers. 

The image was of Derek, fast asleep, with his head pillowed on his hands, clasped together as if in prayer. His expression was one Sloan had seen on his own children. Derek's face looked... angelic.... Sloan grinned... but the naked body... that looked downright erotic as it had responded to his dreams... and it was damned obvious what the dreams had been about. 

"This is better than the lottery!" Sloan decided as he pocketed the image. "Thank you, God! I'll need the ammunition because I sure as hell won't be welcomed back on Angel Island with open arms next time around." 

THE END 


End file.
